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HThe     Makers     of 
Modern    Prose 

A  Popular  Handbook  to  the 
Greater  Prose  Writers  of  the 
Century  :  By  W.  J.  'Dawson 


SECOND  EDITION 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS  WHITTAKER 

LONDON :    HODDER  AND  STOUGHTON 

1903 


Edinburgh :  Printed  by  T.  and  A.  Constable 


PREFACE 

THIS  volume  constitutes  the  second  of  a  series. 
About  ten  years  ago  I  formed  the  ambitious  project 
of  writing  what  might  prove  a  popular  guide  to 
modern  English  literature,  and  I  published  a  volume 
dealing  with  the  great  poets.  The  project  proved  at 
the  time  too  large  for  accomplishment,  and  for  ten 
years  this  early  book  has  remained  unaccompanied 
by  its  proper  comrades.  At  last  I  have  been  able  to 
take  up  my  plan  again,  and  the  present  volume  on 
the  Makers  of  Modern  Prose  is  the  result. 

The  volume  on  the  poets  is  now  republished,  and 
I  hope  to  complete  the  trilogy  by  a  similar  volume 
on  the  Makers  of  Modern  Fiction,  Many  friendly 
critics  pointed  out,  on  the  appearance  of  the  first 
volume,  that  its  title,  the  Makers  of  Modern  English, 
was  misleading,  since  the  book  concerned  itself  with 
the  poets  alone,  who  certainly  are  not  the  only 
makers  in  modern  literature.  The  justice  of  this 
criticism  is  incontestable.  I  have  therefore  amended 
my  title,  retaining  the  phrase,  the  Makers  of  Modern 


vi  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

English,  as  a  generic  title  only,  partly  because  it  has 
already  become  familiar  to  my  readers  ;  in  the  main, 
however,  because  it  is  now  accurate  as  applying  to 
the  general  scheme  of  these  volumes.  That  scheme, 
when  completed,  will  include — 

Vol.     I.  The  Makers  of  Modern  Poetry. 
Vol.  II.   The  Makers  of  Modern  Prose. 
Vol.  III.   The  Makers  of  Modern  Fiction. 

W.  J.  DAWSON. 

London,  June  1899. 


CONTENTS 


CHAP. 

I.  JOHNSON'S   ENGLAND,  . 

II.  JOHNSON'S  MISSION, 

III.  BOSWELL'S  JOHNSON,  , 

IV.  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH,  , 
V.  EDMUND   BURKE,  .  , 

VI.   EDWARD  GIBBON,  , 

VII.   LORD  MACAULAY,.  , 

VIII.  LORD  MACAULAY  {continued), 
IX.   WALTER   SAVAGE  LANDOR, 
X.   THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY,  . 
XL   CHARLES   LAMB,      . 
XII.  THOMAS   CARLYLE, 

XIII.  CARLYLE'S   TEACHING,    . 

XIV.  CARLYLE  :   CHARACTERISTICS, 
XV.   RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON,      . 


13 

24 

39 

56 

71 

88 

107 

122 

140 

155 

169 

187 
198 
208 


vin 


THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 


CHAP. 

XVI.  JAMES   ANTONY   FROUDE, 


XVII.  JOHN   RUSKIN, 


XVIII.  THE  TEACHING   OF  RUSKIN, 
XIX.   RUSKIN'S   IDEAL  OF  WOMAN, 
XX.  JOHN   RUSKIN  :   CHARACTERISTICS, 
XXI.   JOHN   HENRY  NEWMAN, 
XXII.   FREDERICK  W.   ROBERTSON, 


PAGE 
223 

236 

245 

256 

266 

276 

291 


CHAPTER  I 

JOHNSON'S  ENGLAND 

[Samuel  Johnson,  born  at  Lichfield,  1709.     Published  his  Dictionary, 
1775;  Lives  of  the  Poets,  1779-81.     Died,  Dec.  13,  1784.] 

A  FULL  and  accurate  picture  of  the  latter  half  of 
the  eighteenth  century  would  afford  one  of  the  most 
interesting  studies  to  which  the  human  mind  could 
apply  itself;  but  it  cannot  be  said  that  any  such 
picture  already  exists.  We  have  many  sketches 
of  the  period,  lucid,  brilliant,  exhaustive,  but  all 
more  or  less  partial,  and  affording  merely  so  many 
hints  and  elements  from  which  the  true  picture  is 
to  be  combined.  To  the  literary  men  of  this  period 
an  imperishable  interest  attaches.  We  seem  to  see 
them  as  we  see  men  who  toil  in  soot  and  semi- 
darkness  far  down  at  the  foundations  of  some  huge 
building,  lifting  from  the  gloom  at  rare  intervals  a 
grimy  head,  and  calling  to  us  with  a  stentorian 
voice.  We  recognise  in  them  the  pioneers  of  popular 
literature,  and  feel  for  them  the  admiration  which 
is  due  to  that  species  of  silent  heroism  which  endures 
and  labours  without  murmur  in  a  cause  which  brings 
no  personal  reward,  and  whose  triumph  is  deferred 
to  an  hour  so  distant  that  it  is  impossible  that  the 
original  worker  should  behold  it.  There  are  those 
who  reap  and  those  who  sow  :  for  one,  the  golden 

A 


THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 


weather  and  the  joy  of  harvest ;  for  the  other,  the 
bleak  winds,  the  hard  soil,  and  the  labour  done  in 
hope,  and  only  hope.  It  was  the  men  of  the 
eighteenth  century  who  sowed  the  harvest  which  we 
reap  to-day.  It  was  Samuel  Johnson  and  his  con- 
temporaries who  abolished  Grub  Street,  who  raised 
literature  in  England  into  an  honourable  profes- 
sion, who  quarried  through  clay  and  rock  to  reach 
that  gold  of  Golconda,  of  which  they  indeed  secured 
little  enough,  but  to  which  every  man  of  letters  can 
now  help  himself  abundantly,  and  without  restraint. 

This  England  of  the  eighteenth  century — Johnson's 
England,  so  to  speak — was  so  entirely  different  from 
ours  that  it  is  difficult  for  us  to  arrive  at  a  just 
understanding  of  its  life.  The  French  Revolution 
had  not  yet  broken  up  the  deadly  stagnation  which 
rested  over  Europe.  It  was  an  age  of  religion  with- 
out faith,  of  politics  without  honour,  and  of  life 
without  morality.  In  forgotten  pamphlets  and  re- 
membered diaries,  in  the  poetry  of  Cowper  and  the 
vindictive  satire  of  Churchill,  in  the  private  corre- 
spondence of  George  Selwyn,  the  published  diaries 
of  Horace  Walpole,  the  scanty  records  of  the 
passionate  invective  of  Burke,  the  sheets  which  hold 
the  terrible  eloquence  of  Junius,  and  even  in  the 
yellow  pages  of  the  old  club-books,  with  their 
scrawling  memoranda  of  bets  and  debts,  we  find  a 
picture,  only  too  vivid  and  startling,  of  the  customs 
and  manners  of  the  time.  We  hear,  as  in  some 
magic  telephone,  the  confused  hubbub  of  drawing- 
rooms,  where  dicers'  oaths  and  dicers'  gold  rattle 
amid  the  whispers  of  the  latest  scandal  or  the  next 
projected  bribery  ;  and  we  hear  too,  with  even  more 
terrible   distinctness,   the  sea-like   roar  of  the  vast 


JOHNSON'S  ENGLAND 


mobs  which  besiege  the  House  of  Commons,  clamour- 
ing for  Wilkes  and  the  freedom  of  the  press.  We 
are  face  to  face  with  corruption  in  politics,  incompe- 
tence in  council,  and  paganism  in  religion.  It  was 
Robert  Walpole  who  said — not  with  noble  scorn,  but 
with  sincere  conviction — that  every  man  had  his 
price  ;  nor  is  there  any  reason  to  believe  that  he 
ever  found  himself  wrong  in  his  estimate  of  those 
with  whom  he  had  to  deal.  It  is  Johnson  who  tells 
us  that  Walpole  confessed  that  he  always  talked 
grossly  at  his  table,  because  he  found  that  was  the 
only  species  of  conversation  in  which  everybody 
could  indulge.  There  is  no  British  statesman  of  to-day 
whose  honour  would  permit  him  to  use  the  secret 
intelligence  of  the  Government  for  private  purposes 
upon  the  Stock  Exchange  ;  but  in  the  days  of  the 
Georges  this  was  one  of  the  most  fruitful  sources  of 
income  to  a  minister.  There  is  not  a  page  in  the 
biographies  of  the  period  which  does  not  bear  witness 
to  the  venality  and  degradation  of  public  life,  and 
equally  to  the  corruption  of  general  morals.  Out 
of  their  own  mouths  we  convict  statesmen  who 
thought  it  no  more  dishonour  to  provide  for 
themselves,  and  build  up  stately  fortunes  for  their 
children,  out  of  the  public  purse,  than  to  ride  after 
the  hounds  or  eat  a  dinner.  If  we  withdraw  from  the 
Parliamentary  records  of  the  age  such  noble  names 
as  Burke,  Barrc,  Rockingham,  Chatham,  Wilber- 
force,  and  the  faithful  few  who  followed  them,  we 
have  not  only  withdrawn  the  great  lights  from  the 
firmament  of  debate,  but  all  light  from  the  firma- 
ment of  public  virtue.  We  walk  amid  a  ghastly 
phantasmagoria  of  greed  and  envy ;  among  men 
who   have   bribed   their  way  to  Parliament,  and  are 


THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 


utterly  unscrupulous  as  to  how  they  vote  or  what 
they  do,  so  long  as  the  literally  golden  goal  of 
official  life  is  quickly  reached.  Almost  the  one  object 
of  public  life  in  those  days  was  to  make  money,  and 
Cowper  did  not  exaggerate  when  he  wrote : 

The  levee  swarms,  as  if  in  golden  pomp 
Were  charactered  on  every  statesman's  door — 
'  Battered  and  bankrupt  fortunes  mended  here.' 

The  public  purse  was  only  too  public,  for  all  hands 
were  as  deep  in  it  as  circumstances  would  permit. 
At  the  levee  of  a  Grenville  or  a  Grafton  ^"200  bank- 
bills  were  dealt  round  with  lavish  profusion,  and  the 
position  of  a  Government  might  be  accurately  deter- 
mined by  the  amount  it  was  willing  to  pay  to  be 
supported.  It  is  calculated  that  every  change  of 
Government  added  from  nine  to  fifteen  thousand 
pounds  per  annum  to  the  Pension  List,  and  what 
this  means  may  be  measured  by  a  statement  attri- 
buted to  Burke,  that  '  five  Prime  Ministers  maintained 
themselves  for  an  average  of  just  fourteen  months 
apiece,  from  the  day  when  they  were  kissed  in  to  the 
day  when  they  were  kicked  out.'  That  is,  to  put 
it  in  round  numbers,  in  less  than  six  years  from 
forty-five  to  seventy-five  thousand  pounds  per  annum 
were  permanently  added  to  the  Pension  List  by 
ministers  who  could  not  rise,  and  much  less  fall, 
without  pensioning  all  their  dependants,  from  a 
nephew  or  a  secretary  to  a  broker  or  a  cook.  We 
cannot  wonder  that  Johnson,  in  his  dictionary,  defined 
a  pension  as  '  pay  given  to  a  State  hireling  for  treason 
to  his  country,'  and  a  pensioner  as  '  a  slave  of  the 
State  hired  by  a  stipend  to  obey  his  master.' 
Probably  the  one  meritorious  pension  granted  in  the 


JOHNSON'S  ENGLAND 


latter  half  of  the  eighteenth  century  was  the  .£300 
per  annum  given  to  Johnson,  and,  as  we  all  know, 
he  was  bitterly  reproached  for  accepting  it. 

The  social  life  of  the  period  was  little  better  than 
the  public  life.  Drunkenness  and  betting  were  the 
most  venial  of  its  vices.  Cabinet  ministers  were 
'conspicuous  for  impudent  vice,  for  daily  dissipation, 
for  pranks  which  would  have  been  regarded  as 
childish  and  unbecoming  in  a  crack  cavalry  regiment 
in  the  worst  days  of  military  licence.'  One  Secretary 
of  State  was  notorious  as  the  greatest  drunkard  and 
most  unlucky  gambler  of  his  age ;  another  official 
personage  had  established  his  reputation  on  one  gift 
only — if  gift  it  may  be  called — the  power  of  out- 
drinking  any  man  in  the  three  kingdoms.  A  Prime 
Minister  was  permitted  to  appear  at  the  opera  with 
his  mistress,  and  another  Secretary  of  State  was 
esteemed  the  very  vilest  public  man  of  his  century  : 

Too  infamous  to  have  a  friend, 
Too  bad  for  bad  men  to  commend, 
Or  good  to  name. 

The  passion  for  gaming  was  at  its  height.  Bets 
were  offered  upon  everything :  whether  or  not  a 
ministry  would  last  six  months,  a  celebrated  criminal 
would  be  hanged,  a  war  with  any  given  country 
would  begin  or  end  at  any  given  time.  Everything, 
from  the  state  of  the  weather  to  the  state  of  the 
world,  was  discussed  to  a  running  accompaniment 
of  odds  and  guineas.  The  usual  demoralisation 
ensued.  In  every  drawing-room  the  ladies  were  the 
most  eager  players,  and  at  the  clubs  the  most  reck- 
less were  the  younger  men.  The  noblemen  who 
thronged  the  clubs  did  not  always  trouble  themselves 


THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 


to  play  fair,  especially  when  the  contest  lay  between 
a  wealthy  stripling  and  an  impecunious  profligate, 
and  the  losses  sometimes  were  enormous.  Life 
among  the  upper  classes  was  of  that  species  which 
is  ironically  described  as  short  and  merry.  '  A 
squire,'  says  Mr.  Trevelyan,  '  past  fifty-five,  who  still 
rode  to  hounds  or  walked  after  partridges,  was  the 
envy  of  the  countryside  for  his  health,  unless  he 
had  long  been  its  scorn  for  his  sobriety.'  Profligacy 
and  drinking  fill  the  earlier  chapters  of  such  lives: 
gout  and  premature  decay  the  later.  Even  Horace 
Walpole  ceases  to  be  cynical,  and  catches  something 
of  the  iron  glow  of  Tacitus,  as  he  paints  the  picture 
of  cabinet  ministers  and  statesmen  '  reeling  into  the 
ferry-boat '  at  forty-five,  worn  out  with  drunkenness 
and  gout.  Walpole's  caustic  obituaries  of  celebrated 
libertines  are  not  pleasant  reading,  but  they  are 
valuable  for  the  lurid  illumination  which  they  pour 
on  the  character  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

When  the  customs  of  the  upper  classes  were  what 
they  were,  it  is  not  surprising  that  the  life  of  the 
lower  classes  was  inconceivably  brutal  and  degraded. 
The  most  instructive  commentary  on  lower-class 
customs  is  found  in  Hogarth's  pictures  and  John 
Wesley's  journals.  In  the  Beer  Street  and  Gin  Lane 
of  the  great  artist  there  is  given  the  truest  portraiture 
of  drunkenness,  in  all  its  filth  and  madness,  which 
the  pencil  ever  drew,  and  we  cannot  doubt  that  the 
details  of  these  terrible  canvases  were  sketched  from 
actual  life.  In  the  journals  of  the  great  evangelist 
there  are  chronicled  the  faithful  reports  of  an  eye- 
witness who  saw  many  towns  and  many  sides  of  life  ; 
who  probably  knew  the  village  life  of  England  as 
no  other  man  has  ever  done;  who  had  a  thorough 


JOHNSON'S  ENGLAND 


acquaintance  with  his  country,  from  the  Tweed  to 
the  Land's  End  ;  and  what  impression  do  we  gather 
from  his  pages  ?  Everywhere  we  read  of  almost 
inconceivable  ignorance  and  brutality  among  the 
poor :  how  the  churches  of  those  who  should  have 
aided  him  were  closed  against  him  ;  how  magistrates 
did  all  they  could  to  silence  him  ;  how  violent  mobs 
were  always  ready  to  rise  at  the  first  chance  of 
mischief.  The  inhumanity  of  man  to  man  encouraged 
moral  callousness,  and  left  little  room  for  the  blossom- 
ing of  any  refining  sentiments  or  acts.  Every  week 
a  host  of  young  lads  were  hanged  for  theft,  and  the 
spectacle  of  a  criminal  riding  through  the  streets  to 
Tyburn,  and  getting  as  drunk  as  he  conveniently 
could  upon  the  way,  was  too  common  to  attract 
attention.  London  was  called  the  City  of  the  Gallows, 
for  from  whatever  point  you  entered  it,  by  land  or 
water,  you  passed  between  a  lane  of  gibbets,  where 
the  corpses  of  felons  hung,  rotting  and  bleaching 
in  the  light.  Nor  was  crime  suppressed  by  this 
stringency  of  the  law.  Highwaymen  rode  into  town 
at  nightfall,  coolly  tying  their  horses  to  the  palings 
of  Hyde  Park,  and  executed  their  plans  of  robbery 
in  the  very  presence  of  the  impotent  protectors  of 
the  public  peace.  London  was  infested  by  gangs 
of  youths,  whose  nightly  pastime  was  to  bludgeon 
inoffensive  watchmen,  and  to  gouge  out  the  eyes 
of  chance  travellers.  Dean  Swift  dared  not  go  out 
after  dark,  and  Johnson  wrote  : 

Prepare  for  death,  if  here  at  night  you  roam, 
And  sign  your  will  before  you  sup  from  home. 

Ludgate  Hill  swarmed  with  mock  parsons,  and 
thousands   of  spurious    marriages   were    celebrated 


THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 


every  year.  In  the  public  prints  of  the  time  we  read 
an  advertisement  like  this :  '  For  sale,  a  negro  boy, 
aged  eleven  years.  Inquire  at  the  Virginia  Coffee- 
house, Threadneedle  Street,  behind  the  Royal  Ex- 
change.' So  little  was  the  public  conscience  alive  to 
the  wrong  of  slavery,  that  even  George  Whitefield 
thought  it  no  shame  to  buy  slaves  as  part  of  the  pro- 
perty of  his  orphanage-house  in  America.  The  press- 
gang  was  a  constant  public  terror.  Smuggling  was 
a  respectable  and  lucrative  employment ;  brandy  was 
four  shillings  a  gallon,  and  port  a  shilling  a  bottle. 
In  some  parishes  every  fourth  house  was  a  tavern, 
and  in  the  windows  of  many  might  be  read  the 
announcement,  '  Drunk  for  a  penny,  and  drunk  with 
straw  to  lie  upon  for  twopence.'  The  amusements 
of  the  people  were  characterised  by  a  sort  of  rough 
jollity,  and  in  Johnson's  day  football  was  still  played 
in  the  Strand,  and  smock-races  were  run  in  Pall  Mall. 
It  is  hard  to  believe  that  this  England  of  Johnson  is 
but  a  hundred  years  removed  from  us ;  the  chrono- 
logical gulf  of  separation  is  slight  enough,  but  the 
moral  and  social  gulf  immeasurable. 

It  is  scarcely  surprising  that  in  such  a  period 
political  liberty  was  not  understood,  and  that  the 
very  foundations  of  right  government  were  insecure. 
Freedom  of  speech  was,  in  fact,  hardly  more  possible 
under  the  Georges  than  the  first  Stuarts.  Subser- 
vience to  the  court  was  as  indispensable  a  condition 
of  successful  public  life  as  the  bribery  of  the  con- 
stituencies. George  III.  never  forgot  a  division  or 
forgave  an  adverse  vote.  The  most  diligent  and 
painstaking  student  of  Parliamentary  debates  was 
the  King  himself,  and  the  object  of  his  studies  was 
to  discover  and  repress  any  opinion  that  conflicted 


JOHNSON'S  ENGLAND 


with  his  own.     Brave  men  who  had   served  under 
the  British  flag  with  honour  in  every  quarter  of  the 
globe,  were  deliberately  ignored  and  even  deprived 
of  their  commissions,  because  their  political  opinions 
did  not  coincide  with  those  of  their  royal  master ; 
and  the  sovereign  of  a  great  empire  could  sink  so 
low  as  to  request  his  Prime  Minister  to  furnish  him 
with  a  list  of  those  who  had  voted  in   the  minority, 
that  he  might  turn  his  back  upon  them  at  to-morrow's 
levee.     '  If  the  spirit  of  service  could  be  killed  in  an 
English  army,'  said  the  indignant  Chatham,  'such 
strokes  of  wanton  injustice  would  bid  fair  for  it' 
When  George  III.  said  with  bitter  truth  that  '  politics 
were  a  trade  for  a  scoundrel  and  not  for  a  gentleman,' 
he  forgot  how  much  he  himself  had  done  to  degrade 
them,  and  how  the  worst  scoundrels  of  politics  were 
those  who  stood  nearest  the  royal  person  and  ate 
the  royal  bread.     George  III.  was  not  above  '  paving 
the  way  for  a  new  contest  in  a  county  by  discharging 
the  outstanding  debts  of  the  last  candidate,  subsi- 
dising the  patron  of  a  borough  with  a  grant  out  of 
the  Privy  Purse ;    and  writing  with  the  pen  of  an 
English  sovereign,  to  offer  a  subject  some  "  gold  pills" 
for  the  purpose  of  hocussing  the  freeholders.'     He 
manipulated  the  constituencies  with  the  unscrupulous 
zeal  and  astuteness  of  a  born  electioneering  agent. 
With  a  king  who  openly  dealt  in  every  species  of  poli- 
tical jobbery,  it  is  not  surprising  that  there  should  be  a 
public  demoralised  to  the  last  degree  by  bribery  and 
rapacity.     It  was  really  the  rapacity  of  the  placeman 
which  cost  us  our  American    colonies.      Provinces 
were  repeatedly  taxed  to  support  sinecurists  whom 
they  never  saw,  and  in  an  evil  hour  the  American 
colonies  were  suggested  as  an  admirable  field  for  the 


io  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

exploitation  of  the  political  jobber.  The  fiery  pen 
of  Junius  protested  '  that  it  was  not  Virginia  that 
wanted  a  Governor,  but  a  Court  favourite  that  wanted 
a  salary.'  The  debt  of  gratitude  that  the  present 
generation  owes  to  Junius  it  would  be  impossible  to 
overstate.  Often  he  may  be  envenomed,  but  he  is 
seldom  unveracious  ;  and  it  is  to  this  man,  who  dwelt 
apart  in  honourable  pride  and  scorn,  condemning 
from  his  secret  judgment-seat  the  evils  of  his  time; 
who  was  more  powerful  than  Cabinets  and  more 
feared  than  kings ;  who  lived  his  silent  life  with  the 
iron  mask  ever  on  his  face,  and  died  and  made  no 
sign  ;  it  is  to  this  man  that  England  owes  much  of 
her  precious  heritage  of  liberty  which  is  hers  to-day. 
Junius  and  John  Wilkes  were  the  political  saviours 
of  the  eighteenth  century  ;  Johnson  and  Wesley  were 
its  moral  and  religious  saviours. 

It  is  related  that  Johnson  and  Savage  once  walked 
the  streets  of  London  all  night,  because  they  were 
too  poor  to  procure  lodgings  ;  but,  says  Johnson, 
'We  were  in  high  spirits  and  brimful  of  patriotism  ; 
we  inveighed  against  the  Ministry,  and  resolved  to 
stand  by  our  country.'  It  is  ludicrous  enough — two 
ragged  literary  hacks,  without  a  sixpence  for  their 
beds,  resolving  to  stand  by  their  country — and  yet 
that  was  precisely  what  the  country  most  needed,  the 
loyal  adherence  of  true  and  upright  souls  like  John- 
son's. For  the  problem  Johnson  had  to  face  was  that 
of  a  country  fast  going  to  pieces,  and  how  to  save  her. 
The  celebrated  observation  of  Lord  Chesterfield,  that 
he  saw  in  France  every  sign  that  preceded  great  revo- 
lutions, might  have  been  applied  with  equal  truth  to 
England.  For  in  England,  as  in  France,  Voltairism 
had  infected  the  thinking  classes,  political  blindness 


JOHNSON'S  ENGLAND  n 

had  fallen  on  the  ruling  classes,  and  the  passion  of 
revolution  was  already  seething  in  the  hearts  of  the 
lower  classes.  Add  to  this  the  spectacle  of  a  Church 
whose  spiritual  power  had  waned  almost  to  extinction 
because  its  priests  had  lost  sincerity  and  merited  con- 
tempt, a  general  scorn  of  literature,  a  general  disbelief 
in  virtue,  and  you  have  indeed  all  the  conditions  which 
precede  and  produce  revolutions.  Even  men  like 
David  Hume  and  Horace  Walpole  believed  in  the 
imminence  of  some  vast  political  convulsion,  and 
Walpole  had  more  than  once  seen  London  at  the 
mercy  of  as  turbulent  and  resolute  a  mob  as  ever 
tore  up  the  paving-stones  of  Paris  for  barricades,  and 
fought  behind  them  with  the  wild  ferocity  of  tigers. 
In  such  an  age  Johnson  went  to  church,  and  Wesley 
went  into  the  highways  and  hedges  to  care  for  those 
whom  the  Church  neglected.  If  Walpole  had  visited 
Moorfields  at  four  o'clock  on  a  New  Year's  morning, 
he  would  have  found  thousands  of  people  standing 
hushed  before  the  appeals  of  Wesley  ;  or  had  he  gone 
to  Bristol,  he  might  have  found  still  vaster  crowds  of 
grimy  miners  weeping  under  the  impassioned  oratory 
of  Whitefield.  The  very  enthusiasm  and  strength  of 
character  which  would  have  made  many  a  miner  and 
mechanic  a  daring  and  dreaded  captain  of  a  mob, 
Wesley  directed  to  the  peaceful  battlefields  of  right- 
eousness, and  thus  changed  the  men  who  might  have 
proclaimed  a  Commune  into  the  most  loyal  subjects 
that  the  king  possessed.  Thus  it  happened  that 
when  the  great  Revolution  came,  fifty  years  of  the 
great  evangelical  revival  had  done  their  work,  and  it 
was  only  the  trailing  edges  of  the  storm-cloud  that 
swept  our  shores.  This  is  a  conclusion  now  univer- 
sally admitted  by  all  competent  historians,  and  it  is 


12  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 


equally  certain  that  what  Wesley  did  in  one  domain 
of  national  life,  Johnson  did,  by  very  different  means, 
in  another.  Both  were  great  conservative  forces,  and 
incredible  as  it  would  have  seemed  to  the  men  of 
Johnson's  day,  yet  it  was  from  an  obscure  and  excom- 
municated clergyman,  and  from  a  ragged,  neglected, 
half-blind,  and  scrofulous  scholar,  who  had  known 
what  it  was  to  work  in  literature  for  fifteenpence  a 
day,  that  the  true  salvation  of  England  came. 


CHAPTER  II 

JOHNSON'S  MISSION 

In  this  distracted  England,  what  place  was  there  for 
authorship  ?  That  was  a  hard  question,  but  one  which 
in  due  time  Samuel  Johnson  was  called  upon  to  solve. 
It  was  in  truth  the  very  hardest  age  for  authors  that 
England  had  ever  known.  Shakespeare  had  had  his 
Lord  Southampton  on  whom  to  rely,  and  many  a 
lesser  man  than  he  had  had  some  patron,  gracious 
or  supercilious  as  the  case  might  be,  but  who  at  least 
had  stood  between  the  poor  author  and  want,  and  had 
thus  made  the  profession  of  literature  possible.  But 
if  the  age  of  the  patron  had  not  altogether  gone,  it 
was  fast  going,  and  the  age  of  the  public  had  not  come. 
The  author  was  like  some  shivering  minstrel  who 
had  been  thrust  out  from  the  comfortable  light  and 
warmth  of  a  tavern,  where  he  had  at  least  been  per- 
mitted to  sing  unmolested,  if  unhonoured,  and  there 
was  nothing  before  him  but  the  bleak  winds  and  the 
homeless  waste.  Where  was  he  to  go?  Who  wanted 
him  ?  He  had  no  recognised  place  in  the  world :  he 
was  a  dubious  creature,  for  whom  no  chair  was  set 
at  the  board  of  life.  His  work  was  self-imposed,  and 
questionable,  understood  by  few  and  valued  by  yet 
fewer.  Had  he  been  a  bricklayer  or  a  hostler,  the 
world  would  at  least  have  credited  him  with  a  defi- 
nite vocation  ;  but  authorship  was  a  term  of  reproach, 

13 


14  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

and  the  author  was  only  a  shade  more  reputable 
than  the  highwayman.  Horace  Walpole,  although  he 
dabbled  in  literature,  hated  authors  :  Burke's  political 
career  was  actually  hindered  in  its  early  stages  by 
the  fact  that  he  had  written  a  book.  It  must  ever  be 
a  matter  for  amazement  that  in  such  an  age  any  man 
of  spirit  could  have  seriously  thought  of  literature  as 
a  profession,  and  nothing  but  a  miraculous  endow- 
ment of  that  ethereal  fire  which  men  call  hope  could 
have  sustained  any  man  in  such  a  purpose.  Men 
turned  authors  only  because  every  other  livelihood 
had  failed  them  :  they  were  unwilling  martyrs  goaded 
on  to  an  unheroic  Calvary.  He  who  turned  his  face 
toward  the  Calvary  of  literature  by  force  of  an  inward 
and  not  an  outward  compulsion,  could  only  do  so 
because  he  was  animated  by  some  vision  of  a  diviner 
joy  that  was  set  before  him,  some  supremely  noble 
purpose  that  at  once  inspired  and  gladdened  him, 
and  was  its  own  exceeding  great  reward.  Had  a  new 
Fox  flourished  in  the  eighteenth  century,  and  set 
about  writing  a  new  Book  of  Martyrs,  it  is  probable 
that  he  would  have  gone  to  Grub  Street  instead  of 
Smithfield  for  his  chronicles,  and  have  found  his 
heroes  in  literature,  and  not  in  religion. 

The  more  thoroughly  the  eighteenth  century  is 
studied,  the  truer  will  these  observations  appear. 
The  life  of  eighteenth-century  authors  is  one  pro- 
longed Iliad  of  misfortune,  misery,  and  shattered 
hope.  Fielding  died  a  broken  man,  in  the  very  prime 
of  life ;  Smollett  had  to  toil  like  a  galley-slave  for 
subsistence ;  Richardson  only  succeeded  in  securing 
modest  comfort  for  himself  because  he  could  print 
and  sell  books  as  well  as  write  them.  Burke  said 
bitterly  enough  that  figures  of  arithmetic  were  better 


JOHNSON'S  MISSION  15 

worth  his  while  than  figures  of  rhetoric ;  Goldsmith 
was  for  years  the  literal  slave  of  the  booksellers  ; 
Chatterton  perished  unhelped  ;  Johnson  had  to  solve 
the  problem  of  how  to  live  in  a  London  garret  on 
eighteenpence  a  day.  The  day  was  past  when  the 
wit  of  Prior  was  rewarded  with  an  embassy,  and  the 
graceful  humour  of  Addison  was  a  passport  to  a 
Secretaryship.  Money  might  indeed  be  earned  still, 
and  in  profusion,  by  a  certain  species  of  political 
authorship,  but  it  was  not  money  which  any  honour- 
able man  would  care  to  touch.  Walpole  spent  in  ten 
years  fifty  thousand  pounds  among  the  writers  of 
ephemeral  articles  and  pamphlets,  but  not  a  single 
penny  on  any  man  whose  name  is  remembered  in 
literature  to-day,  except  the  pension  he  bestowed  on 
Young.  A  few  of  the  names  of  these  truculent 
scribblers  are  still  preserved  in  Pope's  Dunciad: 
notably  Arnall,  who  received  in  four  years  nearly 
eleven  thousand  pounds,  and  whose  character  may 
be  measured  by  Pope's  stinging  line, 

Spirit  of  Arnall !  aid  me  whilst  I  lie. 

Pope  had  indeed  made  a  fortune  by  literature,  but 
Pope  was  the  first  poet  of  his  day,  and  was  one  of 
the  shrewdest  men  of  business  who  ever  lived.  But 
even  Pope  had  no  pride  in  his  authorship,  and  claimed 
no  dignity  for  the  profession  of  man  of  letters.  It 
was  the  smart  of  personal  vanity,  writhing  under  the 
reproach  of  authorship,  which  made  him  so  meanly 
anxious  to  dissociate  himself  from  his  poorer  con- 
federates in  literature,  and  dictated  the  Dunciad. 
Pope's  great  satire  on  Grub  Street  produces  to-day 
an  effect  the  very  opposite  of  that  which  he  intended: 
it  reveals  the  malevolence  of  the  poet,  and  holds  up 


1 6  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

Grub  Street  not  to  eternal  scorn,  but  to  commisera- 
tion and  sympathy.  A  large-hearted  man  would 
have  been  softened  by  his  very  success  into  some 
compassion  for  the  poor  ragged  drudges  whose  ser- 
vice of  literature,  such  as  it  was,  brought  them  no 
better  reward  than  the  garret  and  the  sponging- 
house,  or  at  least  he  would  have  refrained  from 
insulting  their  misfortunes.  But  Pope  was  not  a 
large-hearted  man,  and  was  too  much  under  the 
traditions  of  literature  by  patronage  to  perceive  that 
in  Grub  Street  the  foundations  were  being  laid  ot 
a  republic  of  letters,  where  the  patron  would  be 
abolished  and  supplanted  by  the  public. 

This,  then,  was  the  state  of  things  when  Samuel 
Johnson,  a  lean,  purblind,  friendless  scholar,  made 
his  appearance  in  London,  humbly  seeking  from  Mr. 
Edward  Cave,  of  St.  John's  Gate,  Clerkenwell,  literary 
employment  on  the  Gentlemen? s  Magazine.  There 
was  little  enough  to  recommend  him,  and  he  had 
little  to  hope  for.  He  was  literally  what  Boswell's 
father,  years  later,  contemptuously  said  he  was,  c  A 
dominie  who  kept  a  school  and  called  it  an  academy.' 
He  was  also  a  schoolmaster  who  had  failed.  Strange 
and  rough  in  manner,  odd  almost  to  grotesqueness  in 
appearance,  liable  to  fits  of  self-absorption,  quick  in 
temper,  keen  and  biting  in  speech,  it  is  little  wonder 
that  his  school  had  not  prospered,  and  that  after 
teaching  Church  history  for  many  months  to  his 
pupils,  one  of  these  misguided  students  was  under 
the  impression  that  the  monasteries  were  destroyed 
by  Jesus  Christ.  Like  Goldsmith,  he  was  driven  into 
literature  by  his  necessities,  and  would  gladly  enough 
have  escaped  had  he  been  able.  One  would  like  to 
know  what  were  Johnson's  first  impressions  of  that 


JOHNSON'S  MISSION  17 

strange,  half-heroic,  half-blackguardly,  tatterdemalion 
world  of  letters  into  which  he  found  himself  intro- 
duced. The  great  light  of  the  Gentleman's  Magazine 
was  a  certain  Moses  Brown,  and  him  he  saw  in  an 
alehouse  at  Clerkenwell,  wrapped  in  a  horseman's 
coat,  with  '  a  great  bushy,  uncombed  wig,'  much  ob- 
scured in  tobacco  smoke  ;  not  an  edifying  vision,  but 
one  to  be  treated  with  due  respect.  Before  long  he 
was  to  find  men  of  letters  in  far  worse  quarters  than 
an  alehouse :  Derrick  sleeping  in  a  barrel,  Savage 
finding  his  lodgings  in  the  streets ;  Boyse  in  bed 
clothed  with  a  blanket,  through  which  holes  had 
been  cut  that  his  arms  might  be  thrust,  in  which 
pleasant  position  Mr.  Boyse  was  accustomed  to  con- 
tinue his  literary  labours  with  a  somewhat  imperfect 
success. 

It  was  the  custom  of  Boyse,  as  soon  as  he  earned 
any  money,  to  spend  it  on  wine  and  truffles,  after 
which  he  returned  to  his  blanket  and  dry  crusts, 
with  a  refreshing  sense  that  life  might  after  all  be 
worth  living.  Drudgery  naturally  bred  recklessness  ; 
and  the  darkness  and  sordid  shifts  of  daily  humili- 
ation were  occasionally  illumined  by  flashes  of  wild 
gaiety  such  as  this.  And  it  was  with  the  Boyses  and 
Derricks  that  Johnson  must  needs  begin  his  literary 
life.  His  companions  were  men  who  only  occasion- 
ally knew  the  satisfaction  of  a  full  meal,  and  whose 
life  alternated  between  gluttony  and  starvation.  If 
Johnson  had  ever  entertained  any  romantic  notions 
of  the  glory  of  a  literary  life,  a  month  of  Grub 
Street  was  amply  sufficient  to  undeceive  him.  But 
Johnson  from  the  first  had  a  perfectly  clear  vision  of 
the  life  on  which  he  was  embarking.  Romantic 
ideas  of  the  pride  of  authorship  did  not  trouble  him  ; 

B 


1 8       THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

he  said  with  blunt  common-sense  that  '  no  man  but 
a  blockhead  ever  wrote  except  for  money.'  The 
problem  was  how  to  get  money  by  means  that  did 
not  involve  a  sacrifice  of  honour,  how  to  maintain  his 
independence  against  the  seduction  of  the  patron  on 
one  hand,  and  the  bullying  extortion  of  the  book- 
seller on  the  other.  That  was  the  real  task  which 
Johnson  set  himself  to  accomplish  :  to  make  the 
world  understand  that  the  work  of  a  man's  brains 
was  as  worthy  of  remuneration  as  the  work  of  his 
hands,  and  that  among  many  professions  literature 
is  not  the  least  honourable,  nor  the  least  productive 
of  good  to  a  nation. 

Perhaps  Johnson  did  not  perceive  the  aim  of  his 
work  as  definitely  as  we  do :  it  is  not  the  soldier 
fighting  in  the  thick  of  the  battle  smoke  who  knows 
best  how  the  fight  is  going.  It  is  pretty  certain 
that  Johnson  had  no  objection  to  patronage  in 
itself.  Why,  indeed,  should  he  ?  That  the  man 
to  whom  fortune  has  accorded  opulence  should 
recognise  that  wealth  has  duties  as  well  as  privileges, 
and  that  among  the  very  highest  services  which 
wealth  can  perform  for  a  country  is  that  of  foster- 
ing and  developing  genius,  is  in  itself  an  altogether 
right  and  noble  thing.  The  connection  between  a 
Southampton  and  a  Shakespeare  is  honourable  to 
both,  and  most  honourable  to  the  patron.  The 
doctrine  that  literary  men  should  shift  for  them- 
selves, and  that  in  the  rough-and-tumble  race  of  life 
they  have  as  good  a  chance  as  anybody  else,  is  very 
well  for  facile  writers,  gifted  with  commercial  shrewd- 
ness ;  but  in  its  application  to  the  finer  spirits  of 
humanity,  it  comes  perilously  near  Horace  Walpole's 
cynical  saying  that  poets  are  like  singing-birds,  who 


JOHNSON'S  MISSION  19 

sing  best  if  we  starve  them.  Would  it  not  have 
been  a  good  thing  for  Goldsmith  if  a  patron  had 
secured  him  ease  of  mind,  by  freeing  him  from  those 
sordid  cares  which  wore  his  life  out  at  six-and-forty  ? 
Have  there  not  been  delicate  spirits  in  every  age, 
whose  genius  has  never  reached  its  blossoming  time, 
for  want  of  some  kindly  shelter  from  the  icy  winds 
of  penury?  The  false  pride  which  prevents  a  man 
from  accepting  kindness,  is  little  better  than  the 
callous  heartlessness  which  prevents  a  man  from 
bestowing  it.  It  was  the  false  pride  of  Chatterton 
that  made  him  refuse  a  proffered  meal  when  he  was 
starving,  and  drove  him  into  suicide  ;  but  a  Johnson 
and  a  Carlyle  knew  how  to  receive  graciously  as  well 
as  give  generously,  and  the  former  is  more  difficult 
than  the  latter.  No,  it  was  not  the  pride  of  stubborn 
independence  altogether  which  made  Johnson  re- 
pudiate the  patron.  He  dimly  felt  the  drift  of  his 
times,  and  perceived  that  the  day  of  the  patron  was 
over.  Literature  had  outgrown  the  patron,  and 
wanted  a  larger  air,  a  freer  environment.  That  same 
democratic  force  which  at  this  very  time  was  start- 
ling Chatham  by  the  return  of  timber  merchants 
to  Parliament,  and  which  was  breathing  its  fiery 
summons  through  the  lips  of  Wilkes,  was  also  pre- 
paring a  new  era  for  literature.  Henceforth  books 
were  not  to  be  the  solace  of  the  rich,  but  the  inherit- 
ance of  the  common  people,  and  in  the  common 
people  authors  were  to  find  a  far  more  munificent 
public  than  in  the  select  circles  of  the  titled  and  the 
wealthy.  The  day  was  nearly  over  when  Cowpcr 
dared  not  speak  of  Bunyan,  lest  so  despised  a  name 
should  earn  a  sneer.  The  reign  of  the  common 
people  was  commencing,  and  the  barriers  which  had 


20  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

hitherto  divided  authors  from  the  public  were  about 
to  be  broken  down.  Johnson  was  the  last  great 
Englishman  who  endured  the  contempt  which  had 
been  associated  with  authorship  ;  and  it  was  the 
advent  of  the  democracy  which  freed  authorship 
from  reproach,  and  threw  open  to  it  the  gates  of  a 
world-wide  liberty. 

The  significance  of  Samuel  Johnson  in  literature 
lies  for  us,  then,  in  this  one  fact,  that  it  was  he  who 
proclaimed  the  Republic  of  Letters,  and  in  him  a 
literary  revolution  centred.  Two  periods  met  in 
him :  he  was  the  last  man  of  the  one  and  the  first  of 
the  other  ;  the  last  great  English  author  who  wrote 
dedications  to  wealthy  patrons,  and  the  first  to  cast 
himself  boldly  on  public  appreciation  for  support. 
How  Johnson,  Tory  as  he  was,  at  last  was  goaded 
into  active  rebellion,  and  proclaimed  in  stentorian 
tones,  which  still  vibrate  on  the  ears  of  men,  this 
new  Republic  of  Letters,  we  all  know.  When  he 
wrote  his  celebrated  letter  to  Lord  Chesterfield,  say- 
ing, '  Seven  years  have  now  passed  since  I  waited  in 
your  outward  rooms,  or  was  repulsed  from  your  door,' 
and  went  on  to  describe  a  patron  as  one  who  '  looks 
with  unconcern  on  a  man  struggling  in  the  water, 
and  when  he  has  reached  the  ground  encumbers  him 
with  help,'  Johnson  rang  the  death-knell  of  patronage. 
It  was  a  noble  letter,  worthy  of  the  man  and  the 
occasion,  breathing  the  spirit  of  proud  independence, 
and  touched  also  with  a  sort  of  rugged  pathos, 
especially  in  those  concluding  epigrammatic  sen- 
tences :  '  The  notice  which  you  have  been  pleased 
to  take  of  my  labours,  had  it  been  early,  had  been 
kind  ;  but  it  has  been  delayed  till  I  am  indifferent, 
and  cannot  enjoy  it ;  till  I  am  solitary,  and  cannot 


JOHNSON'S  MISSION  ai 

impart  it ;  till  I  am  known,  and  do  not  want  it.  I 
hope  it  is  no  very  cynical  asperity  not  to  confess  obli- 
gations where  no  benefit  has  been  received,  or  to 
be  unwilling  that  the  public  should  consider  me  as 
owing  to  a  patron  that  which  Providence  has  enabled 
me  to  do  for  myself.'  That  letter  marks  an  epoch  in 
English  literature.  It  is  the  vigorous  birthcry  of  a 
new  power  :  the  Magna  Charta,  if  you  will,  of  author- 
ship ;  its  Declaration  of  Independence,  which,  like 
another  similar  document  of  modern  times,  seems  to 
state  in  no  doubtful  tones,  not  that  American  slaves, 
but  that  English  writers  are  then,  henceforward,  and 
for  ever  free.  It  was  in  vain  that  Johnson  signed 
that  letter,  'Your  Lordship's  most  humble,  most 
obedient  servant,  Sam.  Johnson ' :  henceforth  he 
was  no  man's  servant,  and  not  obedient ;  he  had 
elected  to  stand  or  fall  by  his  own  genius,  and  had 
inaugurated  a  revolt  not  less  important  to  the  world, 
perhaps,  than  John  Wilkes'  riots,  or  even  French 
Revolutions. 

Perhaps,  in  a  minor  degree,  that  was  not  a  less 
significant  service  to  literature  which  Johnson  per- 
formed when  he  knocked  down  Thomas  Osborne, 
the  bookseller,  with  one  of  his  own  folios,  for  daring 
to  bully  him  for  negligence  in  some  miserable  hack- 
work he  had  undertaken  for  him.  That  a  poor 
author  should  knock  down  a  bookseller  was  certainly 
as  startling  to  shabby,  dim-eyed,  drudging  Grub 
Street,  as  that  he  should  insult  an  earl.  It  was  much 
like  a  schoolboy  who  had  been  sent  up  to  be 
thrashed,  turning  round  upon  the  master  and  thrash- 
ing him  instead  ;  and  was  received  with  the  same 
species  of  jubilation.  The  folio  with  which  this  pro- 
digious act  was  performed  is  still  in  existence,  and 


22  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

should  certainly  be  preserved  as  literally  one  of 
the  most  famous  instruments  by  which  liberty  has 
been  achieved.  For  when  the  worst  has  been  said 
about  patrons,  there  is  still  worse  that  might  be 
written  about  publishers.  If  it  were  a  hard  thing  to 
eat  the  bread  of  charity  at  a  patron's  table,  it  was 
incontestably  a  harder  to  earn  one's  bread  amid  the 
rapacious  tradesmen  of  Paternoster  Row.  There 
were  publishers  who  were  honourable,  and  even 
generous,  as  Johnson  testified  ;  but  there  were  others 
of  the  Griffith  species,  who  bought  men  like  Gold- 
smith at  so  much  a  week,  and  grew  rich  and  even 
kept  two  carriages,  as  is  reported  of  Griffith,  by  the 
lucrative  process  of  sweating  poor  authors.  Not  less 
ignorant  than  rapacious,  such  men  knew  just  enough 
of  books  to  perceive  that  they  might  be  produced 
for  little  and  sold  at  a  good  profit,  and  their  function 
was  to  pick  the  brains  of  authors  and  then  kick 
their  skulls  down  Paternoster  Row.  Their  contempt 
for  literature  went  far  to  make  literature  itself  con- 
temptible, and  the  famished  Grub  Street  drudge 
might  well  look  back  to  the  days  of  patronage  as  to 
a  shining  Paradise,  and  feel  that  the  most  scornful 
charity  of  the  patron  was  better  than  the  dull  avarice 
of  the  hack  bookseller.  This  insolence  of  the  man 
to  whom  literature  was  known  only  as  a  commercial 
commodity,  Johnson  had  also  to  fight,  which  he 
literally  did  when  he  knocked  down  Osborne.  His 
task  was  a  hard  one  :  it  was  to  convince  a  reluctant 
world  that  the  man  who  wrote  books  deserved  well 
of  mankind,  that  he  would  no  longer  be  content 
to  work  for  nothing,  that  he  was  about  to  emerge 
from  his  sordid  Inferno  and  Valley  of  Humiliation, 
and  become  a  power  to  be  reckoned  with,  and  that 


JOHNSON'S  MISSION  23 

henceforth  he  would  vigorously  refuse  to  bare  his 
back  to  the 

Whips  and  scorns  of  time, 
The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  contumely, 
The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 
Which  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes. 

Alone,  unaided,  asking  neither  charity  nor  pity, 
Johnson  set  himself  to  his  appointed  task,  and 
opposed  to  the  shocks  of  time  and  fate  a  stubborn, 
unvanquishable  patience,  altogether  noble,  memor- 
able, and  heroic.  If  to-day  the  man  of  letters  is 
honoured  and  even  opulent,  if  it  be  his  great  vocation 
to  mould  the  minds  of  myriads  through  the  press, 
and  to  preach  in  a  secular  temple  as  wide  as  the 
horizons,  it  was  old  Samuel  Johnson  who  won  for 
him  this  liberty,  and  by  his  poverty  and  sorrow  made 
many  rich. 


CHAPTER   III 

BOSWELL'S   JOHNSON 

The  story  of  Johnson's  life  has  been  told  by  many 
writers,  writing   from   various  points   of  view,  and 
with  various  degrees  of  insight  and  sympathy,  but  it 
has  never  failed  to  be  interesting.      Macaulay  has 
given  us  his  Meissonnier-like  picture  of  the  man  and 
his  times,  a  brilliant   portraiture  from   the  outside 
wrought  up  with  consummate  patience  of  detail  and 
vividness  of  colouring.     Carlyle  has   given    us   his 
sketch  of  the  moral  significance  of  the  man  and  his 
times,  by  virtue  of  his  intense  insight  and  sympathy 
going   far   deeper  than   Macaulay,  and   touching-in 
his  portrait  with    more   lifelike  realism    and   effect. 
Other   and   minor    hands    have    again    and    again 
assumed  the  task,  and  few  have  altogether  failed, 
because  the  man  himself  is  so  full  of  interest  that 
it  is  hardly  possible  for  any  one  to  be  quite  dull  in 
writing  of  him.     Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson  has  held 
its  place  for  a  century  as  a  classic  biography,  and  is 
not  likely  to  be  displaced.    It  is  one  of  the  few  books 
which  a  man  would  choose  for  lifelong  companion- 
ship, a  book  which  fascinates  the  scholar  and  student 
not  less  than  the  common  people  who  run  and  read. 
It  has  the  superb  merit  of  being  graphic  and  alive  in 
its  every  detail.    Boswell  has  no  need  to  describe  his 
hero  :  we  see  him  for  ourselves.     There  is  no  reti- 

24 


B  OS  WELVS  JOHNSON  25 

cence  about  James  Boswell ;  he  tells  us  all  he  knows. 
His  worship  for  his  burly  hero  is  touching  in  its 
thoroughness  and  simplicity.  He  is  quite  willing  to 
acknowledge  that  his  one  function  in  life  was  to 
gather  up  the  scattered  conversational  gems  of  Dr. 
Johnson,  and  he  reckons  it  a  task  worth  living  for. 
Vain  as  he  is,  he  has  no  vanity  in  the  presence  of 
his  idol.  He  is  his  most  devoted  humble  servant. 
He  enjoys  being  insulted  by  Johnson  more  than  he 
would  relish  being  flattered  by  any  other  man.  All 
other  men  he  reckons  to  be  poor  creatures  beside 
the  surly  old  philosopher  of  Bolt  Court,  and  he  is 
at  no  pains  to  conceal  his  estimate  of  them.  The 
result  of  this  hero-worship  on  the  part  of  Boswell  is 
a  book  which  has  interested  the  English-speaking 
people  of  the  earth  for  a  century,  and  seems  likely 
to  interest  them  for  many  a  century  to  come.  Mr. 
George  H.  Lewes  has  said  that  Boswell's  Johnson 
was  a  sort  of  test-book  with  him ;  according  to  a 
man's  judgment  of  the  book  was  the  judgment  he 
formed  of  him.  And  he  has  also  said  with  equal 
felicity  and  truth,  that  '  the  charm  and  value  of  such 
a  work  must  be  in  the  delightfully  dramatic  conver- 
sations, crowded  with  wit,  humour,  and  wisdom ;  and 
in  the  moral  significance  of  the  picture  thus  presented 
of  a  noble  soul  struggling  with  difficulties,  moral  and 
physical,  a  strong  and  affluent  nature  in  which  many 
infirmities  were  blended.' 

Johnson  was  a  great  author  in  more  senses  than 
one,  but  when  we  name  Johnson  we  think  of  the 
man  rather  than  of  his  writings.  Not  that  his  writ- 
ings are  not  worth  careful  perusal.  There  are  lines 
in  his  poetry  which  have  become  classical,  and  there 
are    pages   in    his   essays  which  are  unmatched   in 


26  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

their  own  ponderous  and  elaborate  eloquence.  His 
Dictionary  is  a  monument  of  indefatigable  industry 
and  critical  acumen.  His  Lives  of  the  Poets,  narrow 
and  unsympathetic  as  they  are  in  certain  essential 
points,  are  nevertheless  nobly  conceived  and  nobly 
written.  Cast  off  as  they  were  with  rapidity  and 
ease  by  a  man  who  no  longer  had  a  reputation  to 
make  or  penury  to  fear,  they  are  less  stilted  than  his 
earlier  writings,  and  are  in  every  way  more  vivid,  more 
graceful,  and  more  perfect  in  structure  and  workman- 
ship. But  when  we  have  said  all  that  can  be  said 
about  Johnson's  voluminous  writings,  we  are  still 
face  to  face  with  the  strange  phenomenon  of  a  man 
whose  reputation  as  a  writer  is  forgotten,  still  living 
in  the  imperishable  regard  and  interest  of  posterity. 
For  this  singular  state  of  things  Boswell  is  answer- 
able. But  for  Boswell,  Johnson  would  now  be  a 
mere  shadow  and  a  memory.  But  Boswell,  when  he 
took  it  upon  him  to  dog  and  eavesdrop  the  steps  of 
Johnson,  to  report  his  conversations  and  treasure  up 
his  witticisms,  redeemed  Johnson  from  the  decay 
which  has  fallen  on  his  contemporaries  and  postponed 
for  him  indefinitely  the  encroachments  of  oblivion. 

When  we  ask  what  it  is  that  has  made  Boswell's 
book  a  great  classic,  we  are  bound  to  concede  to 
Boswell  himself  the  credit  of  having  inaugurated 
a  new  style  of  biography,  conceived  with  true 
originality,  and  carried  out  with  conspicuous  success. 
Toady,  sycophant,  braggart,  eavesdropper — all  these 
and  more  Boswell  may  have  been,  but  he  had  one 
great  gift,  the  faculty  of  recognising  greatness,  and 
of  suppressing  himself  in  the  presence  of  greatness. 
His  introduction  to  Johnson  was  not  auspicious,  and 
a  prouder  man  would  have  keenly  resented  Johnson's 


B  OS  WELVS  JOHNSON  27 

mode  of  reception.  '  It  is  true/  said  Boswell,  with 
great  humility,  '  I  am  a  Scotchman,  but  I  can't  help 
it.'  '  That  is  what  a  great  many  of  your  country- 
men cannot  help,'  retorted  Johnson.  More  than 
once  Johnson  tired  of  his  sycophancy,  and  on  one 
occasion  said  to  him,  '  You  have  only  two  subjects, 
myself  and  yourself,  and  I  am  sick  of  both  of  them.' 
On  another  occasion,  when  they  were  discussing  how 
to  get  rid  of  an  awkward  friend,  Johnson  said, 
'We'll  send  you  to  him.  If  your  presence  doesn't 
drive  a  man  out  of  his  house,  nothing  will.'  Johnson 
alternately  lectured,  bullied,  and  quizzed  him,  all  of 
which  Boswell  endured  with  exemplary  meekness, 
for  had  he  not  the  memory  of  that  beatific  hour 
when  Johnson  said, '  I  have  taken  a  fancy  to  you '  ; 
and  was  not  that  sufficient  to  encourage  and  fortify 
him  under  the  worst  caprices  of  his  hero  ?  It  was 
the  very  insignificance  of  Boswell  that  gave  him  his 
unique  fitness  for  the  post  of  Johnson's  biographer. 
Johnson  stood  on  no  ceremony  with  him :  he  never 
restrained  himself,  he  concealed  nothing,  he  followed 
his  variable  whims  as  he  pleased,  without  any  uneasy 
sense  of  being  observed,  and  in  fact  disported  him- 
self with  an  unreflecting  abandonment  which  dis- 
played the  whole  man.  Johnson  had  no  company 
manners  for  anybody,  but  it  is  pretty  certain  that  he 
talked  in  the  presence  of  Boswell  with  a  freedom 
which  he  felt  in  no  other  presence.  The  result  of 
this  strange  comradeship  was  that  Boswell  saw 
Johnson  with  a  completeness  which  was  granted 
to  no  other  man,  and  his  biography  is  a  vivid  por- 
traiture of  Johnson  in  all  his  moods.  We  see  him 
in  his  domestic  as  well  as  his  public  life,  in  his  pre- 
judice and   narrowness  as   well   as   his   nobility  and 


28  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

sympathetic  breadth  of  nature,  in  his  chivalry  and 
rudeness,  his  pugnacity  and  kindliness,  his  strong- 
mindedness  and  superstition,  his  irascibility  and 
patience,  the  humorous  cynicism  of  his  public  talk, 
and  the  concealed  and  shamefaced  charities  of  his 
private  life.  To  this  uninterrupted  and  minute 
study  of  Johnson,  Boswell  devoted  the  best  years  of 
his  life,  and  behind  that  seemingly  foolish  face  of 
his  there  was  concealed  an  extraordinary  vigilance 
of  observation  which  was  capable  of  producing  with 
photographic  exactitude  all  that  passed  across  the 
area  of  its  vision.  The  singular  merit  of  Boswell's 
book  is  that  we  always  see  the  hero  and  never  think 
of  the  author.  We  are  annoyed  by  no  tedious 
dissertations  on  Johnson's  character  and  merits  ; 
Johnson  is  his  own  expositor,  and  lives  and  moves 
before  us  with  extraordinary  reality  and  vividness. 
It  is  these  qualities  which  make  Boswell's  book  the 
greatest  of  biographies,  and  which  justify  us  in 
describing  this  idle,  vainglorious,  Scotch  gossip  as 
the  father  of  all  modern  biography. 

There  is  even  something  in  the  very  simplicity  of 
Boswell  himself  which  is  fascinating.  He  reveals 
himself  with  the  same  unconscious  art  with  which  he 
paints  Johnson.  He  makes  it  abundantly  evident 
what  a  terrible  bore  he  often  proved  himself,  and 
half  of  Johnson's  smartest  sayings  were  provoked 
by  the  irritating  interrogatories  of  Boswell.  When 
Boswell  grew  sentimental  and  talked  of  retiring  to  a 
desert,  Johnson  instantly  suggested  Scotland  to  him 
as  a  suitable  locality.  When  he  ruefully  informed 
Johnson  that  the  wine  he  drank  overnight  had  made 
his  head  ache,  Johnson  sarcastically  replied  it  was 
not  the  wine  which  made  his  head  ache,  but   the 


BOSWELVS  JOHNSON  29 

sense  he  had  put  into  it.  '  Will  sense  make  the  head 
ache  ? '  said  Boswell.  '  Yes,  sir,  if  you  're  not  used 
to  it,'  retorted  Johnson.  Those  continual  gibes 
against  the  Scotch,  which  afforded  Johnson's  friends 
so  much  amusement,  were  more  often  than  not 
devised  for  Boswell's  benefit.  When  a  Scotchman 
apologised  for  Scotland  by  saying  God  made  it, 
Johnson  replied  that  'comparisons  were  odious:  God 
made  hell.'  The  first  night  he  was  in  Edinburgh, 
Boswell  and  he  walked  arm-in-arm  up  the  High 
Street.  '  Well  now,  doctor,  we  are  at  last  in  Scot- 
land,' said  Boswell.  '  Yes,  sir,'  was  the  answer,  *  I 
smell  it  in  the  dark.'  When  Boswell  pressed  him  to 
admit  that  there  was  at  least  plenty  of  meat  and 
drink  in  Scotland,  he  replied,  '  Why,  yes  sir,  meat 
and  drink  enough  to  give  the  inhabitants  sufficient 
strength  to  run  away  from  home.'  It  was  one  of  his 
habitual  jokes  that  the  finest  prospect  a  Scotchman 
ever  saw  was  the  road  that  led  him  to  England,  and 
when  some  one  once  said  that  England  was  lost,  he 
retorted  that  it  was  '  not  so  much  to  be  lamented  that 
England  was  lost  as  that  the  Scotch  had  found  it' 
He  was  reconciled  to  Wilkes  by  a  story  which  that 
astute  demagogue  told  him  of  a  privateer  which  had 
completely  plundered  seven  Scotch  islands,  and 
sailed  away  with  the  booty  of — three-and-sixpence. 
It  must  have  cost  Boswell  something  of  a  patriotic 
pang  to  narrate  these  stories,  but  he  never  hesitated 
to  narrate  any  sort  of  gibe,  either  against  his  country 
or  himself,  if  it  only  illustrated  the  wit  and  humour 
of  Johnson.  The  wonderful  thing  is  that  with  all 
his  admiration  of  Johnson,  he  never  tried  to  soften  in 
the  narration  those  asperities  of  speech  from  which 
he  must  often  have  suffered.     He  reveals  Johnson's 


30  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

defects  with  the  same  simplicity  with  which  he 
reveals  his  own.  When  Hannah  More  entreated 
him  to  delete  from  his  biography  the  stories  which 
showed  Johnson's  temper  at  the  roughest,  he  replied, 
1 1  will  not  make  my  tiger  a  cat  to  please  anybody.' 
This  real  love  of  truth  which  distinguished  Boswell 
was  his  most  memorable  quality,  and  it  wrought  in 
him  an  unconscious  artistic  insight,  out  of  which 
there  was  produced  a  book  which  is  still  unrivalled, 
unapproached,  and  perhaps  unapproachable. 

The  charm  of  Dr.  Johnson  lies  in  his  uncurbed 
and  fearless  individuality.  When  he  emerged  into 
fame,  those  peculiarities  of  demeanour  and  temper 
which  had  always  made  him  grotesque  were  too 
deep-seated  and  long-indulged  for  modification,  nor 
did  he  seek  to  modify  them.  In  his  long  and 
solitary  struggle  he  had  suffered  much,  and  suffer- 
ing had  given  edge  to  his  temper  and  asperity  to 
his  speech.  In  those  hard  and  bitter  years,  when 
he  had  been  as  famished  as  Derrick  and  as  badly 
housed  as  Boyse,  when  he  had  lain  in  sponging- 
houses,  and  had  huddled  behind  a  screen  in  an 
eating-house  that  his  rags  might  not  be  observed, 
he  had  learned  many  lessons,  and  chief  among  them 
this — an  independence  of  soul  which  utterly  refused 
to  be  imposed  upon  by  the  cant  and  conventionalities 
of  life.  He  had  learned  to  see  men  in  their  native 
worth,  or  worthlessness,  and  crouched  and  fawned 
to  no  man.  He  had  found  greatness  of  soul  in  the 
outcast,  and  littleness  of  soul  in  the  great ;  heroism 
hiding  under  rags,  and  meanness  concealed  under 
coronets.  Such  experiences  had  developed  his 
natural  power  of  insight,  his  bluntness  of  speech, 
his  fearlessness  of  the  conventions  of  society.    W'hen 


BOSWELVS  JOHNSON  31 

he  told  men  to  clear  their  minds  of  cant,  he  recom- 
mended a  process  by  which  he  himself  had  profited. 
He  aimed  at  pleasing  nobody  by  his  civilities,  and 
conciliating  nobody  by  his  friendship.  If  he  thought 
a  man  was  a  fool,  he  told  him  so  with  uncompro- 
mising candour.  When  some  one  defended  drinking 
because  it  drove  away  care,  and  made  men  forget 
what  was  disagreeable,  Johnson  retorted  to  the 
question  whether  he  would  not  allow  a  man  to  drink 
for  these  reasons,  '  Yes,  sir,  if  he  sat  next  you!  When 
an  antiquated  beau  asked  him  what  he  would  give 
to  be  as  sprightly  as  he  was,  '  Why,  sir,'  was  the  reply, 
'  I  think  I  would  almost  be  content  to  be  as  foolish.' 
When  a  lady  congratulated  him  on  the  absence  of 
nasty  words  from  his  dictionary,  his  acute  but 
uncomplimentary  retort  was,  '  Oh,  then  you  've  been 
looking  for  them,  have  you  ? '  The  noblest  element 
in  the  strange  conglomerate  of  Johnson's  nature  was 
this  untamable  honesty.  He  had  passed  at  a  single 
step  from  Grub  Street  to  the  society  of  the  wealthy 
and  the  scholarly,  but  he  retained  amid  the  incense 
of  daily  flattery  the  same  resolute  independence 
which  had  supported  him  in  the  long  outlawry  of 
his  beggary.  He  had  brought  with  him  from  Grub 
Street  also  many  habits  which  were  quite  as  startling 
as  the  freedom  of  his  speech.  It  is  not  difficult  to 
understand  how  Mrs.  Boswell  resented  his  over- 
bearing manner,  his  uncertain  hours,  his  strange 
voracity,  his  method  of  snuffing  candles  with  his 
fingers,  and  dropping  the  wax  upon  the  floor.  But 
he  was  no  less  strange  an  apparition  in  the  well- 
ordered  house  of  Mrs.  Boswell  than  he  was  in  society 
itself.  There  he  was,  a  rough,  untamable  man, 
irascible,    dogmatic,    contentious,   saying   things   no 


32  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

one  else  would  dare  to  say  even  if  he  could,  doing 
things  that  were  permitted  to  no  other,  and  men 
might  take  or  leave  him  as  they  pleased.  But 
there  was  also  in  him  a  great  kindly-beating  heart, 
a  rugged  nobleness  of  nature,  a  lambency  of  pure 
genius,  playing  with  fitful  splendour  over  all  his 
thought ;  and  for  these  things  men  might  well  for- 
give, as  the  most  discerning  did,  defects  of  manner 
and  deficiencies  of  temper  and  behaviour. 

Another  reason  which  has  contributed  to  the 
lasting  popularity  of  Johnson  is  that  he  was  a 
typical  Englishman.  He  was  what  would  be  called 
to-day  a  Philistine.  He  had  no  more  respect  for 
literary  than  social  conventions,  and  outraged  both 
with  the  same  energetic  delight.  He  was  full  of 
prejudice,  thoroughly  insular  in  his  habit  of  thought, 
and  narrow  in  the  area  of  his  vision.  He  applied 
the  test  of  blunt  common-sense  to  everything — 
except,  perhaps,  the  Cock  Lane  ghost.  And  yet 
such  is  the  humour  with  which  he  clothes  all  his 
opinions,  that  the  very  insularity  of  Johnson  becomes 
a  new  charm,  and  his  prejudices  delight  us.  He 
gloried  in  the  fact  that  he  had  accomplished  single- 
handed  a  work  over  which  French  lexicographers 
had  exhausted  years  and  numbers;  but  then,  'What 
can  you  expect,'  said  he,  '  from  fellows  that  eat 
frogs  ? '  He  said  that  the  first  Whig  was  the  Devil, 
and  when  he  wrote  Parliamentary  reports  he  always 
took  care  that  '  the  Whig  dogs  should  get  the  worst 
of  it.'  He  at  once  absolved  from  uncharitableness 
a  man  who  was  throwing  snails  into  his  neighbour's 
garden,  when  he  found  his  neighbour  was  a  Whig. 
He  brought  the  same  prejudices  into  play  in  his 
literary    criticisms.      When    he   was    asked    if   he 


BOS  WELL'S  JOHNSON  33 

thought  any  other  man  could  have  written  Mac- 
pherson's  Ossian,  he  replied,  '  Yes,  sir,  many  men, 
many  women,  and  many  children.'  Gray  was  dull 
in  company,  dull  in  his  closet,  dull  everywhere : 
when  he  wrote  his  poems  he  was  simply  dull  in  a 
new  way,  and  that  made  people  think  him  great. 
When  some  one  claimed  for  David  Hume  that  he 
was  at  least  luminous,  Johnson  replied  that  un- 
doubtedly he  had  light — just  enough  to  light  him 
to  Hell.  He  saw  no  beauty  in  Percy's  Ancient 
English  Ballads,  and  ridiculed  the  simplicity  of 
their  metre  in  the  well-known  parody : 

As  with  my  hat  upon  my  head 

I  walk'd  along  the  Strand, 
I  there  did  meet  another  man 

With  his  hat  in  his  hand. 

For  some  obscure  reason  he  hated  Milton's  Lycidas, 
and  when  Miss  Seward  told  him  she  had  read  it 
with  a  delight  that  grew  by  what  it  fed  on,  and  asked 
what  was  to  become  of  her,  he  replied,  '  Die,  then,  in 
a  surfeit  of  bad  taste.'  In  relation  to  art  and  music 
he  displayed  the  same  obstinate  dislike  to  conven- 
tional opinions.  When  a  young  lady  tried  to  secure 
his  admiration  for  the  music  she  had  just  played 
by  saying  it  was  difficult,  '  Difficult,'  he  exclaimed, 
'  would  to  Heaven  it  had  been  impossible  ! '  So  one 
might  go  on  recounting  stories  which  afford  ample 
illustration  of  the  Philistinism  of  Johnson.  In  all 
these  stories,  however,  two  things  arc  obvious :  the 
workings  of  a  strong  but  prejudiced  mind,  so  care- 
less to  conceal  its  defects  that  its  very  candour  is 
humorous;  and  a  power  of  shrewd,  piercing  common- 
sense,  which  is  equally  successful  in  ascertaining  the 

c 


34  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

qualities  and  defects  of  men  and  things,  and  in  the 
exposition  of  both  is  entirely  unrestrained  by  any 
considerations  of  average  and  conventional  opinion. 
The  humour  of  Dr.  Johnson,  springing  as  it  does 
from  intellectual  force  and  being  based  on  sterling 
common-sense,  is  precisely  that  species  of  humour 
which  the  Englishman  never  fails  to  relish.  It  is 
often  rude  and  rough,  but  it  always  goes  to  the 
point,  and  puts  to  rout  the  adversary.  The  oddity 
of  the  whole  performance  is  that  when  Johnson  has 
delivered  his  most  knock-down  sort  of  retort,  he  is 
never  conscious  that  he  has  been  rude  at  all.  He 
was  not  a  sensitive  man,  although  he  was  a  man  of 
deep  feeling,  and  he  had  no  compassion  to  spare 
for  the  pangs  of  wounded  vanity.  He  even  prided 
himself  on  being  a  particularly  gallant  and  polite 
man.  If  he  was  not  exactly  that,  we  may  at  least 
say  that  there  was  no  malice  in  his  wit.  He  usually 
fought  for  the  mere  sake  of  victory,  and  it  is  easy 
to  see  that  he  loved  these  controversial  battles  for 
their  own  sake.  Nothing  delights  him  so  much  as 
to  find  a  foeman  worthy  of  his  steel,  or  we  might 
more  appropriately  say,  of  his  bludgeon.  His  con- 
troversial battles  were  all  conducted  upon  the 
pattern  of  his  famous  tussle  with  Thomas  Osborne. 
When  he  had  knocked  Osborne  down  he  exclaimed, 
'Lie  there,  thou  son  of  dulness,  ignorance,  and 
obscurity ' ;  and  he  further  observed  to  the  truculent 
bookseller  that  he  need  be  in  no  hurry  to  rise,  for 
when  he  did  so  he  proposed  kicking  him  downstairs. 
He  always  aimed  at  disabling  his  adversary,  and 
when  his  blood  was  up  never  stopped  to  consider 
whether  his  words  would  hurt.  Johnson's  wit  is  no 
sharp  rapier  thrust,  no  splendid  fencing  ;  it  has  no 


BOS  WELL'S  JOHNSON  35 


delicacy,  no  ironical  banter,  no  concealed  satire, 
nothing  of  that  elusive  half-meaning  which  makes 
Swift's  wit  so  searching  and  formidable.  He  uses 
the  most  terse  and  stinging  phrases,  and  is  a  master 
in  the  art  of  covering  his  adversary  with  ridicule. 
And  yet,  however  hard  he  hits,  his  epigrams  are  so 
bathed  in  paradoxical  humour,  that  it  is  impossible 
to  be  seriously  offended  with  him.  Even  when  he 
is  in  his  most  contradictory  and  prejudiced  mood, 
it  is  rarely  that  we  cannot  recognise  some  redeeming 
quality  of  good  sense  in  his  criticisms.  Many  of 
his  sayings  have  the  sententious  wisdom  of  proverbs, 
as,  for  instance,  when  he  said  in  reference  to  theo- 
logical disputes  that  the  man  who  would  not  go  to 
heaven  in  a  green  coat  would  not  get  there  any 
quicker  in  a  grey  one  ;  and  when  he  compared  a 
preaching  woman  to  a  dancing  dog — the  wonder 
was  not  that  the  performance  was  well  done,  but 
that  it  was  done  at  all.  He  could  even  accept  the 
laugh  when  it  went  against  himself  with  a  surly 
grace.  But  it  must  be  owned  that  this  was  a  rare 
occurrence.  He  was  the  very  Napoleon  of  conver- 
sation, moving  with  lightning-like  rapidity  upon  his 
adversaries,  and  defeating  them  in  detail.  He  over- 
whelmed them  with  the  sheer  brilliance  and  velocity 
of  his  attack  ;  with  all  his  massiveness,  was  far  too 
alert  ever  to  be  caught  napping ;  and  visited  with 
the  most  summary  castigation  any  one  who  was 
foolish  enough  to  suppose  him  capable  of  such 
stupidity. 

But,  after  all,  no  mere  description,  however  vivid 
and  incisive,  can  paint  Samuel  Johnson.  For  the 
perfect  portraiture  of  Johnson  we  must  go  to  Bos- 
well's    ponderous   book,  and   there,   reading   slowly 


36  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

and  many  times,  till  the  impression  has  had  time  to 
saturate  itself  into  the  memory,  we  shall  at  last  find 
the  figure  of  the  old  doctor  emerging  from  the 
shadows  of  the  past,  with  all  the  freshness  and 
vitality  of  an  immortal  creation.  Gradually,  as  we 
look  through  Boswell's  pages  as  through  a  magic 
crystal,  the  mists  are  withdrawn,  and  all  that  strange, 
crowded,  fascinating  life  of  the  eighteenth  century 
transacts  itself  again  before  our  eyes.  We  see  the 
old  club-room  where  Burke  and  Reynolds,  Beauclerk 
and  Goldsmith  are  familiar  faces :  we  hear  Gold- 
smith's modest  speech,  Burke's  sonorous  eloquence, 
Johnson's  stentorian  verdicts,  while  Reynolds  listens 
with  attentive  trumpet,  and  Beauclerk  smiles  with 
satiric  mirth,  and  Boswell  rubs  his  hands  and 
chuckles  at  the  smart  thrust  and  parry  of  his  hero. 
We  follow  Johnson  as  he  sallies  forth  into  Fleet 
Street ;  we  laugh  at  the  superstitious  care  with 
which  he  touches  the  posts  in  passing ;  and  there 
is  moisture  in  our  eyes  as  we  see  him  stoop  to  put 
a  coin  into  the  hands  of  sleeping  children,  whose 
outcast  lives  know  no  softer  pillow  than  the  stones 
of  London.  We  see  him  do  a  stranger  and  nobler 
thing  still :  from  those  filthy  kennels  he  lifts  a  dis- 
eased and  outcast  woman,  and  carries  her  away 
upon  his  back  to  that  old  house  in  Bolt  Court,  which 
is  already  an  asylum  for  all  species  of  distress,  that 
he  may  there  nurse  her  back  to  life  and  virtue. 
What  strange  depths  of  tenderness  and  compassion 
there  are  in  the  heart  of  this  old  stoical  philosopher  ! 
Who  else  would  ever  have  stood  bare-headed  in  the 
rain,  amid  the  jeers  of  a  market-place,  because  forty 
years  before  he  had  there  inflicted  an  unkindness 
upon  a  father  long  since  dead  ?     How  many  other 


B  OS  WELL'S  JOHNSON  37 

famous  men  of  letters  have  we  had  who  would  have 
watched  beside  a  servant's  sick-bed  as  he  watched 
beside  the  bed  of  Catherine  Chambers,  have  called 
her  his  dear  friend,  and  have  written,  '  I  then  kissed 
her.  She  told  me  that  to  part  was  the  greatest  pain 
she  had  ever  felt,  and  that  she  hoped  we  should  meet 
again  in  a  better  place.  I  expressed,  with  swelled 
eyes  and  great  emotion  of  tenderness,  the  same 
hopes.  We  kissed  and  parted  ;  I  humbly  hope  to 
meet  again  and  to  part  no  more.'  It  is  for  things  like 
these  that  we  love,  and  can  never  cease  to  love, 
Samuel  Johnson.  Well  might  Goldsmith  say  of 
him  that  there  was  nothing  of  the  bear  about  him 
but  the  skin.  Hidden  under  that  uncouth  exterior, 
that  seamed  face  and  shabby  dress,  there  was  not 
merely  a  great  genius,  but  a  great  nature,  a  pro- 
foundly religious,  upright,  heroic  soul.  '  The  world 
passes  away,  and  we  are  passing  with  it ;  but  there 
is  doubtless  another  world  which  will  endure  forever. 
In  the  meantime  let  us  be  kind  to  one  another,'  he 
writes  in  one  of  his  last  letters.  His  final  thoughts 
were  how  to  arrange  an  annuity  for  his  servant 
Frank,  and  having  found  that  fifty  pounds  per  annum 
was  considered  a  handsome  legacy  from  a  nobleman 
to  a  favourite  servant,  he  resolved  to  leave  Frank 
seventy.  To  the  last  his  social  nature  manifested 
itself.  He  filled  his  sick-room  with  friends,  and 
when  Burke  feared  the  number  might  be  oppressive 
to  him,  he  replied,  '  I  must  be  in  a  wretched  state 
indeed  when  your  company  would  not  be  a  delight 
to  me.'  Burke  replied  with  the  tremulousness  of 
unshed  tears  in  his  voice,  '  Dear  sir,  you  have  always 
been  too  good  to  me.'  He  did  not  disguise  his 
honest  love  of  life,  his  honest  dread  of  death ;  but 


38  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

he  who  had  known  how  to  endure  the  one  with 
fortitude  learned  how  to  meet  the  other  without 
dismay.  Tohim,  as  he  lay  dying,  men  and  women 
came  for  benediction,  and  his  last  words  were  to  say 
to  such  a  visitor,  a  young  girl  in  the  freshness  of  her 
maidenhood,  '  God  bless  you,  my  dear.'  Such  was 
Samuel  Johnson,  a  great  man,  and  what  is  more 
than  that,  a  good  man  ;  one  of  those  rare  spirits, 
who  not  only  do  much  to  illumine  the  minds  of  men, 
but  who  do  more  still  to  kindle  and  sustain  their 
best  impulses,  and  whose  memories  thus  become  a 
glory  and  an  inspiration. 


CHAPTER   IV 

OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 

[Born  at  Pallas,  Ireland,  Nov.  10,  1728.  Published  the  Citizen  of  the 
World,  1760;  the  Traveller,  1764;  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  1766. 
Died,  March  25,  1774.] 

If  the  interest  excited  by  Dr.  Johnson  has  been  great 
and  lasting,  not  less  permanent  is  the  interest  which 
attaches  itself  to  Goldsmith.  But  it  differs  altogether 
in  quality.  Johnson  is  in  all  things  the  strong  man, 
a  Hercules  wrestling  with  his  seven  labours,  rude  and 
rough,  but  rarely  less  than  heroic  in  a  stolid  and  in- 
domitable fashion,  and  above  all  a  humourist,  whose 
humour  was  a  weapon,  with  which  he  fought  his  way 
to  fortune.  He  tells  us  that  he  was  once  touched  by 
the  description  which  a  ragged  female  beggar  gave 
of  herself — 'an  old  struggler';  and  he  was  touched 
because  the  phrase  applied  itself  with  curious  felicity 
to  his  own  arduous  life.  We  are  fascinated  with  the 
spectacle  of  Johnson  storming  his  way  onward  to 
esteem,  as  we  should  be  with  the  spectacle  of  a  for- 
lorn hope  pushing  its  way  upward  against  flaming 
battlements :  he  touches  the  soldier  instinct  in  us. 
But  Goldsmith  was  not  a  strong  man,  nor  a  wise 
man,  nor  a  successful  man.  His  qualities  were  pre- 
cisely those  which  do  not  help  a  man  to  overcome 
the  world,  but  through  which  the  world  is  able 
to  inflict  severe  suffering  and  much  secret  torture. 

His  two  dominant  characteristics  were  simplicity  and 

39 


4o  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

sensitiveness,  and  the  hard  discipline  of  life  never 
taught  him  how  to  barter  the  one  for  worldly  shrewd- 
ness, or  the  other  for  worldly  callousness.  It  was  his 
simplicity  which  Walpole  jeered  at  when  he  called 
him  'an  inspired  idiot';  it  was  his  sensitiveness 
which  laid  him  open  to  many  of  those  conversational 
disabilities  which  Boswell  recounts  with  such  mali- 
cious glee.  No  experience  of  the  venomous  jealousies 
of  the  world  ever  cured  Goldsmith  of  his  native 
habit  of  wearing  his  heart  upon  his  sleeve;  no 
experience  of  the  ingratitude  of  the  world  ever 
soured  the  native  kindliness  of  his  nature.  In  sweet- 
ness of  heart,  in  tenderness  of  feeling,  in  all  that 
constitutes  charm  of  character,  Goldsmith,  with  all 
his  faults,  was  and  still  remains  the  most  lovable 
man  whom  English  literature  has  produced. 

The  whirligig  of  Time  brings  strange  revenges, 
and  it  is  one  of  the  revenges  of  Time  that  the  very 
qualities  which  were  the  secret  of  Goldsmith's  earthly 
troubles  are  now  the  sources  of  his  fame  and  fascina- 
tion. A  soft,  unfading  radiance  clothes  him,  and 
our  hearts  go  out  with  unfailing  affection  towards 
one  to  whom  we  owe  so  much.  For,  in  a  wider 
sense  than  we  can  readily  conceive,  the  simplicity 
and  sensitiveness  of  Goldsmith  were  the  forces  which 
shaped  all  the  really  memorable  work  which  he  has 
done  in  literature.  Who  but  a  tender-hearted  man 
could  have  written  the  Deserted  Village,  who  but  a 
man  of  guileless  simplicity  could  have  wandered 
through  those  many  sharp  experiences  which  find 
such  delightful  reflection  in  the  Traveller,  She  Stoops 
to  Conquer,  and  the  Citizen  of  the  Worldl  More  than 
any  other  writer  of  his  time,  more  even  than  pro- 
fessed novelists  like  Smollett  and  Richardson,  Gold- 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  41 

smith  drew  upon  the  wealth  of  his  own  experiences 
in  all  that  he  wrote  of  abiding  interest.  None  but 
a  simpleton  would  have  mistaken  a  squire's  house 
for  an  inn,  but  out  of  that  ludicrous  misadventure 
his  best  comedy  was  born.  None  but  a  man  of 
ineradicable  guilelessness  of  nature  would  have 
entertained  the  idea  of  fluting  his  way  through 
Europe,  but  the  fruit  of  those  strange  wanderings 
was  one  of  the  loveliest  and  most  perfect  poems  in 
English  literature.  A  man  less  sophisticated  and 
world-hardened  than  Goldsmith  could  never  have 
conceived  such  a  story  as  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield, 
a  story  on  which,  to  quote  a  phrase  of  Bunyan's,  '  the 
very  dew  of  heaven  is  still  fresh.5  It  may  be  that 
in  the  ordinary  sense  Goldsmith  was  not  a  wise  man, 
but  there  is  a  frequent  wisdom  in  simplicity  which  is 
denied  to  profundity,  and  in  the  truest  sense  sim- 
plicity may  be  the  last  art  of  profundity.  Certain 
it  is  that  for  the  production  of  the  most  delicate 
bloom  of  literature  the  childlike  mind  is  needed,  and 
Goldsmith  was  an  eternal  child.  Amid  all  the  rude 
and  violent  influences  of  his  time,  he  still  retained 
something  of  the  child's  divine  innocence  and  grace, 
the  child's  sensitiveness  and  impressionability,  and 
for  us  he  possesses  also  all  the  child's  lovableness. 
If  he  occasionally  manifested  also  the  foibles  and  the 
petulance  of  the  child,  these  are  faults  which  can 
be  readily  forgiven  him.  Without  the  foibles,  the 
harmless  egotism  and  amusing  vanity,  the  love  of 
fine  dress  and  incapacity  of  understanding  the  duty 
of  paying  for  it,  the  careless  generosity,  the  total  lack 
of  prudence,  the  unforeseeing  pleasure  in  the  hour,  the 
gay  neglect  of  the  lessons  of  the  past  and  the  stern 
monitions  of  the  future,  he  would  not  be  Goldsmith, 


42  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

he  would  not  be  the  man  whose  simplicity  is  more 
attractive,  and  whose  folly  is  more  endearing,  than 
the  heroism  and  wisdom  of  far  greater  men. 

The  life  of  Oliver  Goldsmith  may  be  described 
as  a  prolonged  misadventure,  a  comedy  with  tragic 
shadows  always  lurking  in  the  background,  a  tragedy 
lit  up  to  the  very  last  with  sunny  flashes  of  comic 
mirth.  What  a  series  of  immortal  pictures  glow 
before  us,  in  living  vividness  and  colour,  as  we  read 
his  history !  From  the  first  our  sympathies  go  out 
to  the  little,  ugly,  pock-marked  child,  under  whose 
clumsy  demeanour  so  rare  a  spirit  is  concealed.  We 
laugh  at  his  innocent  college  excesses,  his  elation  in 
the  possession  of  a  guinea,  his  prodigal  wanderings, 
and  return  on  his  'fiddle-backed  Rosinante,'  his 
excuse  that  after  so  much  trouble  to  reach  home  his 
mother  might  at  least  have  been  glad  to  see  him, 
his  futile  efforts  to  study  law  and  medicine,  his  still 
more  futile  attempt  to  become  a  cleric,  his  reckless 
generosity,  his  insouciant  philosophy,  his  light-heart- 
ed way  of  following  delusive  hopes  and  attempting 
foolish  enterprises.  There  was  never  so  lovable  a 
ne'er-do-weel,  so  innocent  a  prodigal.  But  it  often 
happens  that  our  laughter  comes  perilously  near  to 
tears,  and  the  picture  of  Goldsmith  standing  in  the 
shadows  of  the  Dublin  streets  listening  eagerly  to 
some  street  hawker  singing  his  songs,  is  as  immortal 
in  its  pathos  as  the  picture  of  Goldsmith  spending 
his  last  guinea  in  buying  tulips  for  his  uncle 
Contarine  is  immortal  in  its  humour.  Throughout 
the  life  of  Goldsmith  the  pathos  and  the  humour  go 
together,  and  the  ludicrous  and  tragic  chase  each 
other  in  his  history,  as  cloud  and  sunshine  in  an 
April  firmament.     To  him,  however,  that  was  often 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  43 

enough  tragic  which  is  ludicrous  to  us.  In  the 
world's  great  school  he  was  one  of  those  awkward 
scholars  whose  fate  it  is  always  to  be  imposed  upon 
by  shrewder,  and  bullied  by  stronger,  natures.  Like 
all  sensitive  people  he  had  a  great  capacity  for  love, 
a  thirst  for  recognition  which  the  undiscerning  mis- 
took for  vanity,  a  desire  for  sympathy  which  the 
callous  interpreted  as  egotism.  Even  Johnson  mis- 
understood and  was  unfair  to  him,  and  often  caused 
him  poignant  if  unintentional  pain.  No  one  else 
tried  to  understand  him,  and  no  one  took  him 
seriously.  To  the  members  of  the  Literary  Club  he 
was  what  he  had  been  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  at 
Dr.  Milner's  Academy  at  Peckham,  at  Mr.  Griffiths' 
dingy  shop — a  person  of  no  particular  account, 
whose  amiableness  invited  imposition,  and  whose 
awkwardness  was  a  theme  for  ridicule.  Those  who 
knew  him  best  had  recognised  his  genius  so  little, 
that  when  he  published  the  Traveller,  it  was  difficult 
to  persuade  them  that  he  had  written  it  himself. 
He  was  throughout  life  the  butt  of  inferior  wits,  and 
in  the  arts  which  secure  earthly  success  was  com- 
pletely distanced  by  inferior  men,  because  he  had  no 
power  of  impressing  himself  as  others.  He  had  the 
finest  wit,  but  it  was  not  at  command  ;  he  had  genius 
and  eloquence,  but  an  invincible  awkwardness  and 
timidity  prevented  the  display  of  either  when  their 
display  would  have  won  him  respect.  In  conversa- 
tion he  was  like  a  man  who  has  a  purse  of  gold,  but 
who  cannot  produce  the  single  silver  coin  which  is 
wanted  at  the  moment.  The  same  illustration  may 
be  applied  to  his  entire  life.  With  a  heart  rich  in 
affection,  a  nature  incomparably  wealthy  in  noble 
qualities,    he    possessed     nothing    of    that    exterior 


44  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

fascination  by  which  friendship  is  invited  and 
retained.  Misunderstood,  repulsed  in  his  affections, 
the  hunger  of  his  heart  was  satisfied  with  no  human 
food  ;  and  therefore  to  his  loss,  but  to  our  infinite 
gain,  he  transferred  his  love  to  the  creatures  of  his 
fancy,  and  let  the  restrained  kindliness  and  yearning 
of  his  nature  overflow  in  pages  which  are  the  delight 
of  the  world  to-day,  not  less  for  their  literary  beauty 
than  for  their  moral  tenderness  and  sweetness. 

If  Goldsmith's  life  had  been  less  chequered,  if  he 
had  possessed  personal  charm  as  well  as  genius,  his 
writings  would  have  been  very  different,  and  possibly 
we  should  miss  much  that  is  our  delight  to-day.  He 
was  so  intensely  individual  that  the  reflection  of  his 
own  life  is  seen  in  everything  he  wrote.  Even  in 
his  meanest  hack-work  we  come  ever  and  again  on 
passages  saturated  with  personal  feeling,  passages 
which,  like  some  still  pool  in  a  barren  moorland,  hold 
in  their  depths  the  clouded  blue  of  his  own  troubled 
life.  It  is  not  only  in  his  private  letters  that  he  talks 
of  starving  in  the  streets  of  London,  where  Otway 
and  Butler  starved  before  him,  and  says  that  no  one 
cares  a  farthing  for  him.  Buried  in  the  reviews 
which  he  wrote  for  Griffiths  in  the  earliest  period  of 
his  drudgery,  we  find  sentences  like  these,  which  at 
once  arrest  the  ear  with  the  ring  of  personal  ex- 
perience :  '  The  regions  of  taste,'  says  he,  '  can  be 
travelled  only  by  a  few,  and  even  those  find  indiffer- 
ent accommodation  by  the  way.  Let  such  as  have 
not  yet  a  passport  from  Nature  be  content  with  happi- 
ness, and  leave  the  poet  the  unrivalled  possession  of 
his  misery,  his  garret,  and  his  fame.'  Here  again,  in 
his  Inquiry  into  the  State  of  Learning,  is  a  passage 
which  is   too   clearly  wrung    from    his    own   bitter 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  45 

knowledge  of  life,  and  is  but  too  faithful  and  pro- 
phetic a  transcript  of  his  own  career.  He  says  that 
the  author  is  '  a  child  of  the  public  in  all  respects ; 
for  while  so  well  able  to  direct  others,  how  incapable 
is  he  frequently  found  of  directing  himself!  His 
simplicity  exposes  him  to  all  the  insidious  approaches 
of  cunning  ;  his  sensibility  to  the  slightest  invasions  of 
contempt.  Broken  rest,  tasteless  meals,  and  cause- 
less anxiety  shorten  his  life,  or  render  it  unfit  for 
active  employment ,  prolonged  vigils  and  intense 
application  still  further  contract  his  span,  and  make 
his  time  glide  insensibly  away.  Let  us  not  then 
aggravate  those  natural  inconveniences  by  neglect : 
we  have  had  sufficient  instances  of  this  kind  already. 
It  is  enough  that  the  age  has  already  produced 
instances  of  men  pressing  foremost  in  the  lists  of 
fame,  and  worthy  of  better  times,  schooled  by  con- 
tinual adversity  into  a  hatred  of  their  kind,  flying 
from  thought  to  drunkenness,  yielding  to  the  united 
pressure  of  labour,  penury,  and  sorrow,  sinking  un- 
heeded, without  one  friend  to  drop  a  tear  on  their 
unattended  obsequies,  and  indebted  to  charity  for  a 
grave.'  He  cannot  even  write  his  Natural  History 
without  this  touch  of  heartfelt  humanity : — '  The 
lower  race  of  animals,  when  satisfied  for  the  instant 
moment,  are  perfectly  happy ;  but  it  is  otherwise 
with  man.  His  mind  anticipates  distress,  and  feels 
the  pang  of  want  before  it  arrests  him.  Some  cruel 
disorder,  but  no  way  like  hunger,  seizes  the  unhappy 
sufferer,  so  that  almost  all  those  men  who  have  thus 
long  lived  by  chance,  and  whose  every  day  may  be 
considered  as  a  happy  escape  from  famine,  are  known 
at  last  to  die,  in  reality,  of  a  disorder  caused  by 
hunger,  but  which  in  the  common  language  is  often 


46  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

called  a  broken  heart.  Some  of  these  I  have  known 
myself,  when  very  little  able  to  relieve  them  ;  and  I 
have  been  told  by  a  very  active  and  worthy  magis- 
trate, that  the  number  of  such  as  die  in  London  of 
want  is  much  greater  than  one  would  imagine  —  I 
think  he  talked  of  two  thousand  a  year.'  In  passages 
like  these  we  have  not  only  gleams  of  poetry  and 
pathos,  but  we  have  Goldsmith's  own  life.  All  the 
reward  he  obtained  for  his  poetry  was  his  misery,  his 
garret,  and  his  fame.  Tasteless  meals  and  mean 
distresses  in  Green  Arbour  Court,  threats  of  arrest 
from  Griffiths,  midnight  vigils  and  ill-paid  drudgery, 
a  life  whose  every  day  was  a  happy  escape  from 
famine,  were  the  actual  elements  of  Goldsmith's 
lot,  and  wore  his  strength  out  in  the  very  prime  of 
his  years.  That  strange  disorder  called  a  broken 
heart,  of  which  two  thousand  persons  died  annually 
in  London,  including  some  he  had  known  and  could 
but  little  relieve,  was  his  destined  end  also ;  for  were 
not  his  last  words  the  confession  that  his  mind  was 
not  easy?  and  was  it  not  that  united  pressure  of 
labour,  penury,  and  sorrow  which  weighed  him  down 
into  the  grave  ?  How  much  does  it  say  for  the  true 
nobility  of  Goldsmith's  nature,  that  hard  as  his  life 
was,  one  of  its  unhappy  results  at  least  he  never  knew: 
he  never  flew  from  thought  to  drunkenness,  or  was 
schooled  by  adversity  into  a  hatred  of  his  kind. 

There  is  another  respect  also  in  which  the  noble- 
ness of  Goldsmith's  nature  was  displayed.  He  had 
a  higher  vision  of  the  functions  of  a  man  of  letters 
than  even  Johnson  had,  and,  with  far  less  natural 
strength  of  character  than  Johnson,  was  equally 
sturdy  in  the  maintenance  of  his  own  honour  and 
independence.    We  are  accustomed  to  praise  Marvell 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  47 

for  refusing  a  king's  bribe,  ana  Milton  for  turning 
his  back  upon  a  king's  messenger,  but  in  Goldsmith's 
life  there  occurred  an  equally  striking  but  less-known 
scene.  We  have  seen  that  while  men  of  genius 
starved,  political  pamphleteers  of  the  meanest  abilities 
rolled  in  luxury,  and  there  came  a  time  when  the 
Government  made  a  bid  for  the  pen  of  Goldsmith. 
The  infamous  Sandwich  had  a  certain  Parson  Scott 
as  chaplain,  and  Scott  was  sent  to  Goldsmith  to 
induce  him  to  write  in  favour  of  the  administration. 
'  I  found  him,'  says  Scott,  '  in  a  miserable  set  of 
chambers  in  the  Temple.  I  told  him  my  authority : 
I  told  hirn  that  I  was  empowered  to  pay  most 
liberally  for  his  exertions,  and  would  you  believe  it, 
he  was  so  absurd  as  to  say,  "  I  can  earn  as  much  as 
will  supply  my  wants  without  writing  for  any  party ; 
the  assistance  you  offer  is  therefore  unnecessary  to 
me."  And  so,'  said  the  reverend  plenipotentiary, 
with  unstinted  contempt,  '  I  left  him  in  his  garret.' 
What  Goldsmith's  exact  earnings  were  at  this  time, 
it  would  be  interesting  to  know :  what  sum  it  was 
that  he  found  sufficient  for  his  wants ;  but  we  know 
that  this  offer  came  at  the  close  of  twelve  years' 
desperate  struggle  for  bread,  during  which  his  first 
work  had  brought  him  little  profit,  and  the  Vicar  of 
Wakefield  had  been  sold  for  £60  to  pay  his  landlady. 
He  was  now  forty,  and  had  but  a  few  more  years 
to  live.  Eight  years  before  he  had  made  despairing 
attempts  to  free  himself  from  the  unsought  yoke  of 
literature,  and  had  thus  described  himself:  'Years 
of  disappointment,  anguish,  and  study  have  worn 
me  down.  Imagine  to  yourself  a  pale  melancholy 
visage,  with  two  big  wrinkles  between  the  eyebrows, 
with  an  eye  disgustingly  severe,  and  a  big  wig ;  and 


48  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

you  have  a  perfect  picture  of  my  present  appearance.' 
It  was  this  man,  who  had  toiled  like  a  galley-slave, 
and  with  scarcely  more  honour,  who  had  produced 
some  of  the  finest  things  in  English  literature  for 
the  wages  of  a  porter,  who  had  been  K?„ndied  from 
pillar  to  post  by  booksellers  and  editors,  hustled, 
bullied,  threatened,  a  miserable  drudge  whose  only 
familiars  were  ignominy  and  hunger — it  was  this 
man  who  was  now  tempted  with  the  vision  of  opu- 
lence, and  he  refused  it.  It  may  seem  little  enough 
to  some  ears  to-day  to  say  that  Goldsmith  refused 
to  sell  his  pen  to  a  party,  but  let  us  measure  the 
temptation  rightly  that  we  may  rightly  measure 
the  heroism  of  the  refusal.  There  were  few  writers 
of  that  time  who  would  not  have  welcomed  the 
Reverend  Chaplain  Scott  on  such  an  errand.  In 
many  a  garret  not  more  miserable  than  Goldsmith's, 
his  advent  would  have  seemed  like  the  birth  of  light 
itself  after  long  darkness.  Had  he  gone  to  Chatter- 
ton's  garret  in  Brooke  Street,  Holborn,  he  would 
have  been  welcomed,  for  Chatterton,  boy  as  he  was, 
had  measured  the  world  with  cynical  correctness 
enough  to  say  that  any  man  was  a  fool  who  could 
not  write  on  both  sides  of  a  question.  Neither 
Marvell  nor  Milton  was  tried  by  so  terrible  a  test 
as  this,  for  neither  touched  the  depth  of  miserable 
poverty  in  which  Goldsmith  dwelt.  Yet  forlorn  as 
he  was,  Goldsmith  was  proof  against  the  bribe. 
Much  as  he  had  lost  in  the  long  struggle,  he  had  not 
lost  self-respect ;  broken  as  he  was  in  hope,  he  was 
not  broken  in  noble  pride  :  with  prompt  magnanimity 
he  said  '  No '  to  Parson  Scott,  and  that  covetous 
intriguer  and  pluralist  left  him  to  his  misery,  his 
garret,  and  his  fame. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  49 

Horace  Walpole  once  said,  with  characteristic  cox- 
combry, to  a  correspondent,  '  You  know  how  I  shun 
authors,  and  would  never  have  been  one  myself  if 
it  obliged  me  to  keep  such  bad  company.  They 
are  always  in  earnest,  and  think  their  profession 
serious,  and  dwell  upon  trifles,  and  reverence  learning. 
I  laugh  at  all  these  things  and  divert  myself.'  When 
Goldsmith  shut  the  door  upon  Parson  Scott,  he 
performed  the  last  definite  act  which  bound  him  to 
authorship.  He  had  begun  life  with  far  different 
hopes,  he  had  become  author  only  by  compulsion, 
but  at  last  he  had  come  to  see  that  authorship  was 
the  one  vocation  for  which  he  was  supremely  fitted, 
and  he  regarded  it  with  seriousness  and  earnestness. 
The  special  fitness  of  Goldsmith  for  authorship  lay 
in  two  things,  and  the  first  of  these  was  style.  He 
touched  nothing  that  he  did  not  adorn  :  if  he  had 
written  upon  a  broomstick  he  would  have  written 
beautifully,  said  Johnson,  and  it  was  no  more  than 
the  truth.  Where  did  this  careless  idler,  this  un- 
scholarly  scholar,  this  poverty-stricken  waif,  pick  up 
the  secret  of  his  style  ?  We  do  not  know  and  cannot 
tell,  for  in  truth  literary  style  is  born  and  not  made. 
Clumsy  as  Goldsmith  was  in  conversation  and  un- 
skilled in  repartee,  no  sooner  did  his  hand  hold  a 
pen  than  he  was  at  once  master  of  a  most  delicate 
humour,  a  rare  felicity  of  thought,  a  diction  of 
exquisite  purity  and  grace.  Open  where  we  will  in 
Goldsmith,  we  come  on  passages  as  clear  as  running 
water,  and  as  full  of  refreshing  music.  He  never 
tries  to  be  eloquent :  all  is  simple,  natural,  unaffected, 
and  yet  all  is  expressed  with  such  concision  and 
polish  of  phrase  that  we  feel  in  every  line  the  skill 
of  the  true  artis       When  he  said  that  if  Johnson 

D 


50  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

had  written  of  little  fishes  he  would  have  made  them 
talk  like  whales,  he  exactly  hit  the  fault  of  Johnson's 
prose — its  wearisome  pompousness,  its  artificial  and 
grandiose  pretension.  But  Goldsmith  could  make 
little  fishes  talk  like  little  fishes ;  in  other  words,  he 
was  master  of  a  perfectly  supple  and  lucid  style,  and 
always  wrote  not  only  with  engaging  simplicity,  but 
with  a  true  artistic  perception  of  the  adaptation  of 
the  means  to  the  end.  A  perfect  finish  characterises 
even  his  most  hasty  and  lightly-considered  work. 
His  Animated  Nature  was  little  better  than  hack- 
work, but  it  contains  passages  like  this :  '  It  is  the 
landscape,  the  grove,  the  golden  break  of  day,  the 
contest  upon  the  hawthorn,  the  fluttering  from  branch 
to  branch,  the  soaring  in  the  air,  and  the  answering 
of  its  young,  that  gives  the  bird's  song  its  true 
relish.  These  united  improve  each  other,  and  raise 
the  mind  to  a  state  of  the  highest  yet  most  harmless 
exultation.  Nothing  can  in  this  situation  of  mind 
be  more  pleasing  than  to  see  the  lark  warbling 
on  the  wing,  raising  its  note  as  it  soars,  until  it 
seems  lost  in  the  immense  heights  above  us  ;  the 
note  continuing,  the  bird  itself  unseen ;  to  see  it 
then  descending  with  a  swell  as  it  comes  from  the 
clouds,  yet  sinking  by  degrees  as  it  approaches  its 
nest,  the  spot  where  all  its  affections  are  centred, 
the  spot  that  has  prompted  all  this  joy.'  Here  is  the 
hand  of  the  true  artist,  who  writes  well  because  he 
feels  exquisitely,  and  whose  phrases  have  the  spon- 
taneous eloquence  which  springs  from  true  feeling, 
alike  charming  to  the  intellect  and  the  heart.  In 
freshness,  elegance,  grace  of  style,  Goldsmith  is 
unrivalled,  and  he  who  desires  to  write  noble 
English   cannot    go    to   a   better   school    than    that 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  51 

of  the    Citizen    of   the    World  and    the     Vicar    of 
Wakefield. 

But  it  needs  more  than  a  fine  mastery  of  language 
to  make  a  great  writer  ;  and  the  second  source  of 
Goldsmith's  literary  greatness  is  his  temper.  He 
breathes  the  spirit  of  a  noble  benevolence,  an  un- 
affected piety,  a  heart-moving  compassion.  His 
own  rough  experiences  of  life,  so  far  from  teaching 
him  aversion  to  his  kind,  had  bred  in  him  a  bound- 
less sympathy.  '  Were  I  to  be  angry  with  men  for 
being  fools,'  he  writes,  '  I  could  here  have  found 
ample  room  for  declamation  ;  but  alas !  I  have  been 
a  fool  myself,  and  why  should  I  be  angry  with  them 
for  being  something  so  natural  to  every  child  of 
humanity?'  This  sentence  is  admirably  character- 
istic of  Goldsmith.  With  the  child's  fascinating 
artlessness  he  is  the  historian  of  his  own  folly,  he 
laughs  at  his  own  blunders,  he  reveals  his  own  most 
secret  affections.  He  finds  something  of  gold  in 
the  poorest  dross  of  human  nature,  and  refuses  to 
speak  meanly  of  the  lowest,  or  harshly  of  the  worst. 
He  himself  has  been  a  fool  :  why  indeed  should  he 
laugh  at  the  folly  of  others  ?  He  himself  has  also 
found  out,  by  living  contact  and  experience,  that 
human  worth  and  kindness  are  to  be  found  every- 
where, and  most  perhaps  in  the  least-expected 
quarters.  No  one  ever  understood  the  poor  better, 
or  has  treated  them  with  so  touching  a  reverence. 
For  Goldsmith's  feeling  for  the  poor  was  not  mere 
sentimental  pity  ;  it  was  a  profound  respect.  He 
was  the  son  of  a  country  clergyman  '  passing  rich  on 
forty  pounds  a  year '  :  he  had  seen  the  austere  noble- 
ness of  poverty,  as  well  as  its  mean  shifts  ;  and  in 
those  early  wanderings  of  his,  he  had  often  broken 


52  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

bread  with    some   such   peasant    saints   as   he   de- 
scribes : 

At  night  returning,  every  labour  sped, 
He  sits  him  down  the  monarch  of  a  shed  ; 
Smiles  by  his  cheerful  fire,  and  round  surveys 
His  children's  looks  that  brighten  in  the  blaze. 

It  was  of  his  brother's  humble  life  he  wrote  : 

Blest  be  those  feasts  with  simple  plenty  crown'd, 

Where  all  the  ruddy  family  around 

Laugh  at  the  jests  or  pranks  that  never  fail, 

Or  sigh  with  pity  at  some  mournful  tale, 

Or  press  the  bashful  stranger  to  his  food, 

And  learn  the  luxury  of  doing  good. 

The  luxury  of  doing  good  was  the  only  luxury 
Goldsmith  ever  knew.  Perhaps  it  compensated  him 
for  the  lack  of  many  other  things  which  most  men 
esteem  luxuries.  He  believed  in  goodness  and 
practised  it,  and  it  was  out  of  that  temper  of  unre- 
strained love  for  humanity  that  all  that  is  noblest 
in  his  work  sprang.  Its  most  direct  fruit  is  the 
Vicar  of  Wakefield.  Who  that  has  ever  read  those 
immortal  pages,  who  that  has  laughed  at  the  harm- 
less simplicities  and  vanities  of  the  little  group,  has 
not  also  felt  the  presence  of  something  beside  humour 
and  pathos  in  the  book,  a  sunny  humanity,  a  divine 
atmosphere  of  compassion,  the  pulsations  of  a  pure 
and  boundless  sympathy?  Is  there  in  the  whole 
realm  of  English  literature  anything  more  profoundly 
touching  than  that  scene  in  which  the  old  Vicar 
suddenly  stops  himself  in  the  curses  which  he  has 
uttered  on  his  daughter's  betrayer,  and  says,  '  I  did 
not  curse  him,  child,  did  I  ?  '  '  Indeed,  sir,  you  did  ; 
you  curst  him  twice.'     'Then   may  Heaven  forgive 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  53 

me  and  him,  if  I  did.'  It  is  a  great  power  to  touch 
at  will  the  sources  of  tears  and  laughter,  but  it  is  a  yet 
greater  to  breathe  into  the  very  spirit  of  a  man  some- 
thing of  the  charity  of  God,  and  that  is  what  Gold- 
smith has  done  in  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  The  fresh 
wind  of  Eden  blows  across  its  pages  ;  it  is  the  picture 
of  a  lost  Paradise,  and  the  lesson  of  how  it  may  be 
regained.  Goethe  has  recorded  how  great  a  blessing 
the  book  was  to  him.  He  read  it  in  his  youth  ;  he 
has  recorded  his  obligations  in  his  autobiography; 
and  '  standing  at  the  age  of  eighty-one  on  the  very 
brink  of  the  grave,  he  told  a  friend  that  in  the 
decisive  moment  of  mental  development,  the  Vicar 
of  Wakefield  had  formed  his  education,  and  that  he 
had  recently,  with  unabated  delight,  read  the  charm- 
ing book  again  from  beginning  to  end,  not  a  little 
affected  by  the  lively  recollection  of  how  much  he 
had  been  indebted  to  the  author  seventy  years  before. 
When  we  think  of  this  noble  spirit  of  piety  which 
breathes  through  all  Goldsmith's  writings,  and  of  its 
effect  in  softening  the  emotions  and  purifying  the 
thought,  we  may  say  of  Goldsmith,  as  he  has  said 
of  the  great  poets  whom  he  loved,  "  To  such  would  I 
give  my  heart,  since  to  them  I  am  indebted  for  its 
humanity." ' 

Much  of  Goldsmith's  writings  must  perish,  but  his 
best  writing  is  secure.  The  impression  which  he 
made  upon  the  men  of  his  own  time  was  deeper  even 
than  they  knew,  and  it  was  only  the  hour  of  bereave- 
ment that  revealed  to  them  all  that  they  had  lost. 
When  the  unexpected  news  of  his  death  came,  Burke 
burst  into  tears,  and  Reynolds  threw  away  his  brush; 
but  more  affecting  still,  as  a  token  of  what  his  life 
had    meant   to    many,  was   the  crowd    of  unhappy 


54  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

creatures  who  thronged  the  staircase,  and  wept 
bitterly,  because  the  only  friend  they  had  ever  known 
lay  dead  above.  Perhaps  he  would  have  valued  the 
tears  of  these  poor  retainers  at  a  higher  rate  than 
the  praises  of  posterity ;  and  yet,  too,  there  was  a 
fame  which  Goldsmith  sought,  and  to  which  he  knew 
himself  entitled.  There  is  nothing  more  pathetic 
in  his  history  than  that  keen  tormenting  conscious- 
ness which  possessed  him  of  capacity  squandered 
in  uncongenial  toil,  of  genius  equal  to  the  highest 
tasks  but  bound  to  the  meanest  by  the  need  of 
bread.  He  did  his  hack-work,  but  he  loathed  it ;  he 
did  it  as  hack-work  was  never  done  before,  but  he 
chafed  under  its  degradation,  and  still  more  under 
this  sense  of  conscious  waste  of  power ;  and  if  he 
had  stopped  there,  we  should  not  be  writing  of  him 
to-day.  But  deep  in  the  heart  of  poor  Goldsmith 
there  was  that  fiery  thirst  for  fame  which  is  the 
portion  of  all  great  spirits,  and  without  which  it 
would  be  impossible  for  genius  to  endure  the  hard- 
ships and  reproaches  of  its  lot.  The  foolish  call 
this  thirst  vanity,  and  the  undiscerning  name  it 
egoism,  but  it  is  in  truth  neither  one  nor  other :  it 
is  simply  the  effort  of  a  great  mind  to  attain  its 
greatest,  to  be  worthy  of  itself,  to  secure  the  recog- 
nition which  it  feels  that  it  may  justly  claim,  to  live 
again  in  the  life  of  distant  ages  as  an  influence  and 
a  power,  secure  in  an  eternal  esteem,  immortal  in 
the  power  of  doing  good.  '  There  is,'  says  a  modern 
writer,  '  a  kind  of  life  after  death  which  is  enviable ; 
such  as  Apuleius  had  all  over  the  cities  of  the  East  ; 
the  fame  which  bent  down  before  it  alike  the  Pagan 
and  the  Christian  world,  which  united  in  it  all  the 
glories  and  all  the  forces  of  the  pontiff,  the  poet,  the 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  55 


orator,  the  teacher,  the  seer.'  Apuleius  lived  in  the 
flesh  eighteen  hundred  years  ago,  but  he  lives  to-day 
in  the  spirit,  in  the  mind  of  every  scholar.  Can  we 
think  of  the  sweetness  of  Psyche  without  remembering 
her  poet  ?  Can  we  even  hear  an  ass  bray  in  the  streets 
without  a  vague  fancy  that  the  heart  of  Lucius  is 
beating  under  his  shaggy  skin  ?  That  is  fame,  because 
it  is  indissoluble  attachment  with  the  minds  of  men, 
and  a  power  over  their  emotions,  which  is  secure 
amid  all  changes  of  time  and  taste.  It  is  this  vision 
of  a  place  in  the 

Choir  invisible 
Of  those  immortal  dead  who  live  again 
In  minds  made  better  by  their  presence, 

that  has  been  the  divine,  sustaining  hope  of  all  those 
great  spirits  whose  thoughts  yet  move  us,  and  whose 
memories  are  dear  and  vital  to  us.  It  has  been  also 
their  reward.  When  Goldsmith  toiled  in  secret  on 
the  Traveller,  he  had  a  definite  aim  before  him  ;  it 
was  to  '  catch  the  heart  and  strike  for  honest  fame.' 
He  could  not  better  have  described  his  claim  to  im- 
mortality. He  has  caught  the  hearts  of  men  in  the 
charmed  web  of  his  exquisite  and  tender  simplicity, 
and  has  found  honest  fame  in  the  love  of  multitudes 
made  not  merely  wiser  but  better  by  his  presence. 
The  first  instalment  of  that  fame  was  paid  in  the 
praise  of  Goethe,  and  each  succeeding  generation 
has  followed  where  he  led,  and  has  been  eager  to 
pay  its  tribute  of  affection  and  acclaim  at  the  shrine 
of  Oliver  Goldsmith. 


CHAPTER  V 

EDMUND     BURKE 

[Born  in  Dublin,  Jan.  12,  1729.  Published  A  Vindication  of  Natural 
Society,  and  Philosophical  Inquiry  into  our  Ideas  on  the  Sublime 
and  Beautiful,  1756  ;  Reflections  on  the  French  Revolution,  1790. 
Died,  July  9,  1797.] 

The  last  of  those  great  men  who  formed  the  John- 
sonian circle  is  Edmund  Burke,  and  he  is  the  greatest 
of  all.  In  mere  bulk  of  genius  he  easily  overtops  all 
his  contemporaries,  and  is  second  only  to  Johnson 
himself.  The  testimony  to  the  greatness  of  Burke 
is  singularly  impressive  and  complete.  Johnson  said 
that  if  a  man  had  to  shelter  from  a  shower  under 
a  shed,  and  had  Burke  as  his  companion  for  ten 
minutes,  he  would  go  away  saying, '  This  is  an  extra- 
ordinary man.'  Goldsmith  spoke  of  Burke's  inimit- 
able fashion  of  winding  his  way  into  a  subject  like  a 
serpent.  Fox  said  of  him  on  a  memorable  occasion, 
'  If  all  the  political  information  I  have  learned  from 
books,  all  which  I  have  gained  from  science,  and  all 
which  my  knowledge  of  the  world  and  its  affairs  has 
taught  me,  were  put  in  one  scale,  and  the  improve- 
ment which  I  have  derived  from  my  right  honour- 
able friend's  instruction  and  conversation  in  the 
other,  I  should  be  at  a  loss  to  decide  to  which  to 
give  the  preference.  I  have  learned  more  from  my 
right  honourable  friend  than  from  all  the  men  with 
whom  I  have  ever  conversed.'    Mackintosh  said  that 

56 


EDMUND  BURKE  57 


Gibbon  mi^ht  have  been  taken  out  of  a  corner  of 

o 

Burke's  mind  without  ever  being  missed.  To  the 
splendour  of  his  oratory  no  witness  is  needed.  It  is 
true  that  he  often  spoke  amid  the  hootings  of  tipsy 
squires,  and  he  spoke  too  often  for  his  own  fame  in 
the  House.  But,  like  another  great  Parliamentary 
orator  of  our  own  time,  it  was  unanimously  felt  that 
while  it  might  be  safe  to  treat  him  with  unseemly 
contempt  on  small  occasions,  when  a  great  occasion 
came  he  was  the  only  man  really  competent  to  deal 
with  it.  Burke's  mind  was  one  of  those  full  and 
powerful  minds  which  are  perpetually  restless  to 
express  themselves,  and  seize  every  occasion  and  an 
infinite  variety  of  subjects  on  which  to  lavish  their 
stored-up  wisdom.  It  was  this  that  Johnson  felt 
when  he  said  once,  during  an  illness,  '  that  if  he  were 
to  see  Burke  then,  it  would  kill  him,'  because  Burke 
called  forth  the  full  powers  of  his  mind.  Burke's 
was,  in  truth,  one  of  the  great  fountain-minds  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  and  from  him  there  streamed 
forth  intellectual  influences  which  produced  pro- 
found effects  upon  his  times  that  are  still  felt. 

That  Burke's  success  in  life  was  not  equal  to  his 
deserts  is  a  common  observation,  and  there  are  many 
circumstances  to  account  for  the  fact.  He  entered 
public  life  with  the  taint  of  the  adventurer  attaching 
to  him,  and  that  is  precisely  the  one  thing  which 
stiff  and  formal  politicians  find  most  difficult  to 
forgive.  To  this  day  no  one  has  unravelled  the 
mystery  of  his  purchase  of  the  Gregories  ;  all  that 
we  know  is  that  he  seems  to  have  passed  at  a  single 
stride  from  indigence  to  comparative  opulence,  that 
one  week  he  is  glad  to  earn  an  extra  hundred  pounds 
by  writing  for  Dodsley,  and  the  next  he  is  a  landed 


58  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

proprietor  with  a  position  which  could  not  be  sus- 
tained on  less  than  two  thousand  a  year.  Through- 
out his  life  he  was  profuse  in  his  expenditure,  and 
both  Rockingham  and  Reynolds  helped  him  with 
princely  generosity,  and  ordered  that  their  heirs  were 
to  destroy  all  bills  which  they  had  received  from 
Burke.  But  perhaps  this  taint  of  impecuniosity 
would  not  have  hindered  Burke's  career  seriously,  if 
he  had  not  also  displayed  many  glaring  defects  of 
temper  and  judgment,  which  rendered  him  a  difficult 
political  colleague  and  an  awkward  friend.  In  his 
philosophical  judgments  he  was  profound,  brilliant, 
far-reaching;  but  in  his  personal  judgments  of  men 
and  things,  he  was  apt  to  be  hasty  and  violent.  He 
hated  to  be  thwarted  :  he  did  not  know  how  to  be 
conciliatory,  and  thus  he  often  became  politically 
impracticable.  In  much  of  this  there  was  the  natural 
irritability  of  genius  in  conflict  with  slow  and  stupid 
natures,  but  much  also  must  be  attributed  to  a 
temper  inherently  defective.  We  can  understand  his 
breach  with  Fox,  but  it  is  lamentable  to  find  him 
refusing  to  ride  in  the  coach  of  a  man  who  spoke 
a  good  word  of  Fox.  We  can  understand  his 
chivalrous  interpretation  of  political  friendship,  but 
it  shocks  us  to  find  him  using  all  his  eloquence  to 
defend  two  defaulting  clerks  in  his  own  department, 
who  were  indubitably  guilty.  Burke  was  as  lavish 
of  his  friendship  as  of  his  money,  and  one  reason 
why  his  party  never  rewarded  him  with  cabinet  rank 
was,  as  Elliot  puts  it,  that  '  Burke  has  now  got  such 
a  train  after  him  as  would  sink  any  one  but  himself/ 
and  goes  on  to  name  four  discredited  Irishmen,  of 
whom  he  says  mankind  is  quite  '  nauseated.'  This 
cardinal  lack  of  discretion  not  merely  spoiled  Burke's 
political  chances,  but  it  did  something  to  spoil  his 


EDMUND  BURKE  59 


literary  style  also.  His  violence  of  feeling  often 
leads  him  to  the  use  of  grossly  exaggerated  phrases, 
and  occasionally  of  phrases  whose  vulgarity  is  but  a 
poor  substitute  for  force.  Fox  said,  and  with  truth, 
that  he  had  ransacked  the  controversial  writings  of 
Milton  and  Salmasius,  that  he  might  give  fresh 
currency  to  the  violent  language  of  Salmasius 
against  Milton,  and  the  still  worse  language  of 
Milton  against  Salmasius.  When  Goldsmith  spoke 
of  Burke  giving  up  to  party  what  was  meant  for 
mankind,  this  was  what  he  meant.  Burke  allowed 
his  whole  nature  to  be  so  thoroughly  mastered  by 
partisanship,  that  his  noblest  qualities  had  only 
incidental  opportunities  of  display,  and  his  errors  of 
taste  were  remembered  with  malicious  exactitude, 
when  the  greatness  of  his  genius  was  forgotten. 

These  are  faults  which  go  far  to  explain  the  com- 
parative failure  of  Burke's  political  career,  because 
in  political  life  dexterity  and  adroitness  are  qualities 
which  go  much  further  than  genius.  But  when  all 
possible  allowance  has  been  made,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed that  Burke  had  about  him  that  grand  style 
which,  whether  in  life  or  literature,  always  dis- 
tinguishes the  really  great  man.  There  was  a 
magnificence  about  the  man  which  awed  men  into 
admiration,  even  in  spite  of  themselves.  He  moved 
upon  the  stage  with  a  certain  largeness  of  action 
which  no  other  had,  and  when  he  chose  he  completely 
dominated  it.  In  the  small  scuffles  of  Parliamentary 
life  he  was  awkward  and  useless,  simply  because  he 
was  one  of  those  rare  men  who  demand  a  great  stage 
for  the  display  of  their  powers,  and  are  never  seen 
to  advantage  on  any  other.  Burke  required  great 
questions  to  call  forth  his  greatness,  and  it  is  a 
pity  that  he  ever  deigned  to  speak  on  any  others. 


60  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

Let  a  question  be  such  as  rose  out  of  the  realm  of 
party  advantage  into  the  ampler  air  of  imperial 
solemnity  and  moral  consequence ;  let  it  be  some- 
thing which  touched  the  life  of  nations,  the  sources 
of  virtue,  the  inalienable  rights  of  justice;  let  it 
above  all  be  a  question  which  touched  the  deepest 
springs  of  sentiment,  and  purified  the  passions 
by  terror  and  pity  —  and  then  the  full  stream  01 
Burke's  genius  was  unloosed,  and  he  became  an 
intellectual  giant,  lifting  the  most  tremendous  bur- 
dens of  thought  with  easy  mastery,  probing  their 
profoundest  depths  with  superhuman  power  and 
insight.  In  such  moments  Burke  was  '  clad  in 
sudden  brightness  like  a  man  inspired.'  The  central 
force  of  his  genius  was  a  brilliant  imagination,  and  it 
was  not  until  his  imagination  kindled  that  his  whole 
mind  woke  into  activity.  But  when  once  his  imagi- 
nation caught  the  flame,  his  whole  mind  seemed  to 
flow  like  molten  ore.  He  touched  the  supreme 
heights  of  thought,  of  passion,  of  feeling,  without  an 
effort.  He  was  swept  away  upon  the  current  of  his 
own  strong  passion,  and  was  its  slave  rather  than  its 
master. 

Across  his  sea  of  mind 
The  thought  came  streaming  like  a  blazing  ship 

Upon  a  mighty  wind. 

Men  looked  on  with  awe,  as  upon  some  supernatural 
display.  They  asked  whether  this  could  indeed  be 
the  man  whom  they  had  jeered  at  with  tipsy  wit  the 
night  before  last,  and  who  had  been  able  to  find  no 
jest  in  reply.  It  was  Burke  indeed,  but  it  was  Burke 
transfigured.  It  was  Burke  with  the  grosser  and 
lesser  elements  of  his  nature  purged  away  in  the 
flame  of  humanitarian  passion,  and  with  only  the 


EDMUND  BURKE  61 


essential  genius  left.  When  we  read  the  greater 
passages  of  Burke's  speeches  and  writings,  we  are 
still  full  of  wonder  at  their  brilliance  and  grandeur  ; 
and  by  that  we  may  judge  how  enormous  their  effect 
must  have  been  when  the  questions  of  which  they 
treat  were  living  questions,  and  the  words  we  read  at 
the  distance  of  a  century  were  spoken  with  a  voice  of 
thunder  into  the  ears  of  living  men. 

It  is  this  grand  style,  this  quality  of  magnificence, 
which  has  raised  Burke's  Parliamentary  speeches 
into  permanent  literature.  He  first  roused  the  Eng- 
lish mind  to  the  appreciation  of  the  vastness  of  that 
Indian  Empire  which  England  had  won  for  herself, 
and  to  the  truth  that  conquest  brings  responsibility 
as  well  as  glory.  He  brought  into  the  politics  of  his 
time  a  just  and  humane  tendency,  which  has  in- 
creased and  strengthened  ever  since.  He  hated  all 
forms  of  oppression  and  despotism  with  a  perfect 
hatred,  and  was  never  roused  to  such  noble  eloquence 
as  when  he  was  pleading  the  cause  of  the  oppressed. 
The  derision  with  which  the  House  often  treated  him 
was,  in  truth,  the  measure  of  his  moral  greatness. 
Dull  natures  resented — as  dull  natures  only  can — 
the  fierce  goadings  of  a  man  who  was  full  of  the 
enthusiasm  of  humanity.  Why  did  Burke  perpetu- 
ally preach  to  them  the  wrongs  of  India?  What 
was  India?  It  was  the  prize  of  British  conquest, 
and  should  be  treated  as  a  prize.  What  possessed 
Burke  to  talk  about  the  rights  of  Hindus?  Men 
who  refused  civil  rights  to  the  American  colonists 
were  not  likely  to  admit  that  Hindus  had  any  rights 
to  be  outraged,  or  any  code  of  honour  to  be  abused. 
All  the  barbaric  insularity  of  British  ignorance  and 
prejudice  rose  up  against  Burke  when  he  pleaded  the 


62  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

claims  of  India,  and  his  opponents  found  it  easier  to 
hoot  him  down  than  to  answer  him.  In  fact,  he 
could  not  be  answered.  He  was  right,  and  men 
knew  that  he  was  right. 

The  magnificent  detachment,  the  singular  and 
almost  sublime  isolation  of  the  man,  was  not  less 
impressive  than  his  eloquence.  The  eloquence  itself 
was  like  nothing  that  the  House  of  Commons  had 
listened  to  before  or  since.  It  possessed  a  peculiar 
richness  of  quality,  beside  which  the  sparkling  speech 
of  Sheridan  seemed  jejune,  and  the  eloquence  of  Fox 
unfinished.  It  abounded  in  a  species  of  sublime 
imagery  such  as  no  other  English  orator  has  ever 
commanded.  It  was,  in  fact,  the  unrestrained  out- 
pouring of  a  great  intellect,  perhaps  the  fullest  and 
ripest  intellect  of  his  time. 

We  cannot  wonder  at  the  sort  of  impotent  fury 
which  possessed  the  minds  of  his  adversaries,  whose 
only  notion  of  governing  India  was  to  suck  her  life- 
blood  out  by  infamous  rapacities  and  spoliations, 
when  they  listened  to  such  a  passage  as  this.  He 
pictures  the  sort  of  men  who  were  sent  out  to  govern 
India  thus :  '  Animated  by  all  the  avarice  of  age, 
and  all  the  impetuosity  of  youth,  they  roll  in,  one 
after  another,  wave  after  wave,  and  there  is  nothing 
before  the  eyes  of  the  natives  but  an  endless,  hopeless 
prospect  of  new  flights  of  birds  of  prey  and  passage, 
with  appetites  continually  renewing  for  a  food  which 
is  continually  wasting.'  Then  they  return  home, 
glutted  with  wealth,  '  and  their  prey  is  lodged  in 
England  ;  and  the  cries  of  India  are  given  to  seas 
and  winds,  to  be  blown  about,  in  every  breaking  up 
of  the  monsoon,  over  a  remote  and  unhearing  ocean.' 
In  India,  he  bitterly  exclaims,  all  the  vices  operate 


EDMUND  BURKE  63 


by  which  sudden  fortunes  are  acquired,  while  in  Eng- 
land are  often  displayed  by  the  same  person  the 
virtues  which  dispense  hereditary  wealth,  so  that 
'here  the  manufacturer  and  the  husbandman  will 
bless  the  just  and  punctual  hand  that  in  India  has 
torn  the  cloth  from  the  loom,  or  wrested  the  scanty 
portion  of  rice  and  salt  from  the  peasant  of  Bengal, 
or  wrung  from  him  the  very  opium  in  which  he 
forgets  his  oppression  and  his  oppressors.'  Such 
masterpieces  as  these  have  long  since  been  recog- 
nised as  among  the  noblest  passages  of  English 
literature.  They  are  kept  alive  not  merely  by  their 
rhetorical  brilliance,  but  by  the  intense  flame  of 
moral  power  which  animates  them.  They  are 
models  of  declamation,  and  more  than  this,  they 
are  models  of  magnificent  style,  of  the  power  and 
stateliness  to  which  the  English  language  can  attain 
when  it  is  wielded  by  the  hand  of  a  great  master. 

The  common  peril  of  what  may  be  called  the  grand 
style  is  grandiloquence,  and  this  peril  Burke  has  not 
always  escaped.  The  purple  patches  are  not  always 
introduced  with  good  taste,  or  with  a  correct  eye  to 
the  general  harmony  of  effect.  Like  most  artists  who 
produce  broad  and  powerful  effects,  his  workmanship 
is  sometimes  coarse,  and  his  colours  are  sometimes 
crude  and  hot.  Burke's  temperament  was  that  of  the 
poet,  and  that  was  why  everything  was  seen  through 
the  golden  haze  of  imagination.  His  first  book,  the 
memorable  essay  on  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful,  is 
the  manifesto  of  a  poetic  genius.  It  is  the  index  to 
Burke's  mind,  and  sufficiently  declares  on  what  food 
he  had  nourished  his  thoughts.  The  finest  passages 
of  ancient  poetry,  especially  of  Hebrew  poetry,  are 
there  cited  and  explained  ;  and  when  Burke  cannot 


64  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

find  an  adequate  translation,  he  makes  one  for  him- 
self, as  in  the  admirable  transcript  of  the  lines  of 
Virgil  which  describe  Vulcan's  cave  in  Etna :  '  Three 
rays  of  twisted  showers,  three  of  watery  clouds,  three  of 
fire,  and  three  of  the  winged  south  wind:  thus  mixed 
they  in  the  work  terrific  lightnings,  and  sound,  and  fear, 
and  anger,  with  pursuing  flames? 

But  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  Burke 
always  uses  one  style,  and  that  a  style  of  superb 
rhetorical  adornment.  He  uses  whatever  style  best 
suits  his  immediate  purpose.  He  can  be  terse,  un- 
adorned, homely,  colloquial,  as  well  as  gorgeous, 
ingenious,  and  philosophical.  He  can  concentrate 
his  passion  into  single  vivid  phrases,  as  when  he 
speaks  of  the  '  living  ulcer  of  a  corroding  memory.' 
He  is  never  monotonous,  because  he  is  always  vari- 
ous. He  can  write  in  the  clearest  and  most  un- 
coloured  of  prose,  as  in  his  Thoughts  on  the  Present 
Discontents  ;  or  in  glowing  diatribe,  as  in  his  Reflec- 
tions on  the  French  Revolution  ;  or  with  an  over- 
whelming passion  of  scorn  and  anger,  as  in  the  famous 
Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord,  which  Mr.  Morley  has  called 
the  most  brilliant  repartee  in  the  language.  So 
diverse  is  his  power  that  one  of  his  critics  has  said, 
and  scarcely  with  exaggeration :  '  Burke's  writing  is 
almost  unrivalled  for  its  combination  and  dexterous 
interchange  of  excellencies.  It  is  by  turns  statistics, 
metaphysics,  painting,  poetry,  eloquence,  wit,  and 
wisdom,  it  is  so  cool  and  so  warm,  so  mechanical  and 
so  impulsive,  so  measured  and  so  impetuous,  so  clear 
and  so  profound,  so  simple  and  so  rich.  Its  sentences 
are  now  the  shortest  and  now  the  longest  ;  now  bare 
as  Butler,  and  now  figured  as  Jeremy  Taylor  ;  now 
conversational,  and  now  ornate,  intense  and  elaborate 


EDMUND  BURKE  65 


in  the  highest  degree.  He  closes  many  of  his  para- 
graphs in  a  rushing  thunder  and  fiery  flood  of  elo- 
quence, and  opens  the  next  as  calmly  as  if  he  had 
ceased  to  be  the  same  being.'  The  only  exception 
that  we  need  take  to  this  description  is  the  use  of  the 
words  '  wit '  and  '  mechanical,'  as  applied  to  Burke. 
Dr.  Johnson  said  with  truth  that  Burke's  wit  was 
blunt,  that  in  fact  it  was  a  quality  which  he  did  not 
possess.  As  for  being  '  mechanical,'  this  is  the  very 
thing  that  Burke  could  never  be.  On  the  contrary, 
he  did  mere  than  any  other  writer  of  the  eighteenth 
century  to  break  the  bonds  of  mechanism  which 
Johnson  and  his  school  had  laid  upon  literary  ex- 
pression. The  very  critic  who  has  thus  called  him 
mechanical  has  in  another  place  said,  with  a  clearer 
perception  of  the  truth,  that  '  all  good  and  vigorous 
English  styles  since  Burke's — that  of  Godwin,  that 
of  Foster,  that  of  Hall,  that  of  Coleridge,  that  of  De 
Quincey,  are  much  indebted  to  the  power  with  which 
Burke  stirred  the  stagnant  waters  of  our  literature, 
and  by  which,  while  professing  himself  an  enemy  of 
revolutions,  he  himself  established  one  of  the  greatest, 
most  beneficial,  and  most  lasting — that  of  a  new, 
more  impassioned,  and  less  conventional  mode  of 
addressing  the  intellects  and  hearts  of  men.'  But  the 
greatest  quality  of  his  writings  must  still  be  recog- 
nised in  that  species  of  spiritual  aloofness  which  held 
him,  as  it  were,  poised  high  above  his  immediate 
subject,  with  his  eye  fixed  on  the  broader  issues  and 
relations  of  things,  in  something  of  philosophic,  but 
still  more  of  prophetic  intensity  of  vision.  Greatness 
of  style  arises  after  all  not  from  accidental  grace  or 
glow  of  expression  :  it  springs  from  something  deeper 
— the  great  mind  and  the  noble  temper. 

E 


66  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

The  greatest  of  Burke's  writings,  and  the  one  which 
produced  the  most  profound  effect  upon  his  times  and 
his  own  fortunes,  was  his  Reflections  on  the  French 
Revolution.  Nothing  that  he  wrote  has  been  more 
widely  read,  and  in  it  the  best  and  worst  qualities  of 
his  genius  are  displayed  with  singular  abandonment. 
Its  literary  qualities  are  great  and  undeniable.  Few 
passages  in  English  literature  are  better  known  than 
that  marvellous  description  of  Marie  Antoinette  as 
he  saw  her  in  her  happy  days,  and  of  that  burst  of 
mournful  anger  against  the  foes  who  had  humiliated 
her.  '  But  the  age  of  chivalry  is  gone.  That  of 
sophisters,  economists,  and  calculators  has  succeeded, 
and  the  glory  of  Europe  is  extinguished.  Never, 
never  more  shall  we  behold  that  generous  loyalty  to 
rank  and  sex,  that  proud  submission,  that  dignified 
obedience,  that  subordination  of  the  heart,  which 
kept  alive,  even  in  servitude  itself,  the  spirit  of  an 
exalted  freedom.  The  unbought  grace  of  life,  the 
cheap  defence  of  nations,  the  nurse  of  manly  senti- 
ment and  heroic  enterprise  is  gone  !  It  is  gone,  that 
sensibility  of  principle,  that  chastity  of  honour,  which 
felt  a  stain  like  a  wound,  which  inspired  courage 
while  it  mitigated  ferocity,  which  ennobled  whatever 
it  touched,  and  under  which  vice  itself  lost  half  its 
evil  by  losing  all  its  grossness.'  The  spectacle  of 
Burke  suddenly  transformed  into  the  panegyrist  of 
the  French  Court  might  well  prove  an  astounding 
one  both  to  his  friends  and  foes.  But  in  reality  the 
change  was  not  a  change  of  principle.  In  all  that 
touched  the  higher  sentiments  of  life,  Burke  had 
always  been  intensely  conservative.  He  still  pro- 
fessed to  love  a  '  manly,  moral,  regulated  liberty/  and 
in  this  he  only  said  afresh  what  he  had  said  ten  years 


EDMUND  BURKE  67 


before — '  The  liberty,  the  only  liberty  I  mean,  is  a 
liberty  connected  with  order.'  Burke  was  simply  the 
first  great  Englishman  to  perceive  the  violence  which 
was  being  bred  in  French  politics,  and  to  walk  in  that 
pathway  of  unpopular  renunciation  which  was  after- 
wards to  be  trodden  by  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge. 

But  the  really  remarkable  thing  about  Burke's 
pamphlet  was  that  it  displayed  a  political  foresight 
which  was  little  short  of  prophetic.  It  was  published 
in  1790,  when  the  foremost  minds  of  Europe  enter- 
tained nothing  but  the  most  brilliant  hopes  of  the 
Revolution.  The  dreadful  spectre  of  the  Terror  had 
given  no  sign  of  its  advancing  footsteps.  The  very 
word  Republic  had  not  yet  been  breathed,  and  the 
king  still  believed  constitutional  government  possible. 
Robespierre  was  an  obscure  name.  Marat  had  some- 
where about  this  time  been  convicted  of  theft  at  the 
Oxford  Assizes.  Danton  was  unknown.  The  little 
Corsican  who  was  to  change  the  map  of  Europe  was 
a  youth  still  learning  the  rudiments  of  military 
science.  At  the  hour  when  Burke  wrote,  not  one 
single  voice  had  been  lifted  up  in  warning  of  any 
such  catastrophes  as  these.  The  very  wisest  and 
most  cautious  of  men  had  '  golden  hopes  for  France 
and  all  mankind.'  Burke's  book  was  a  storm-bell 
rung  when  the  sky  was  clear,  when  a  new  day  of  the 
brightest  and  most  reasonable  hope  seemed  breaking 
over  Europe.  We  may  admit  now  that  Burke  wrote 
from  imperfect  information,  and  with  an  entirely  im- 
perfect realisation  of  the  real  causes  which  worked 
out  the  Revolution.  We  may  lament  that  he  who 
had  so  nobly  championed  the  native  rights  of  Hindus 
should  find  nothing  to  say  on  behalf  of  the  French 
serf,  to  whose   famine-stricken  appeal   the  reply  of 


68  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

the  French  aristocracy  was  that  he  should  eat  grass. 
But  however  imperfectly  Burke  realised  the  true 
causes  of  the  Revolution,  he  accurately  perceived  its 
course  when  he  prophesied  that  its  end  would  be  a  new 
despotism,  fiercer,  mightier,  and  more  intolerant  than 
Europe  had  ever  known  or  dreamed  of.  There  is  no 
instance  of  political  prescience  in  English  history  so 
remarkable  as  this.  Three  years  later,  in  the  January 
°f  J793>  the  news  of  the  execution  of  Louis  XVI. 
reached  London,  and  it  then  seemed  as  if  a  great 
unheeded  prophecy  had  come  true.  The  whole  nation 
put  on  mourning,  and  Burke  found  himself  at  once 
the  most  famous  and  most  powerful  man  in  the 
country.  It  was  then  that  the  full  fruit  of  his 
pamphlet  began  to  be  seen.  It  is  scarcely  too  much 
to  say  that  it  was  Burke  who  directed  the  course  of 
foreign  politics  for  the  next  twenty  years,  that  that 
long  series  of  wars  which  culminated  at  Waterloo 
began  in  that  wave  of  intense  feeling  which  swept 
over  the  country  when  men  read  Burke's  pamphlet, 
and  found  three  years  later  that  its  terrible  verifica- 
tion had  commenced. 

For  himself,  however,  the  vindication  of  his  opinions 
was  a  heavy  price  to  pay  for  that  wide  disruption  of 
friendships  which  ensued.  He  had  become  popular 
with  the  men  who  had  hated  him  all  their  lives,  and  he 
had  lost  the  love  of  men  who  had  honoured  him  with 
the  friendship  of  years.  He  was  vindicated,  but  he 
was  solitary  ;  he  was  undismayed,  and  was  sustained 
doubtless  by  his  unconquerable  love  of  truth ;  but 
when  a  man  reaches  the  borders  of  age,  the  loss  of 
friendship  cannot  but  leave  its  sorrowful  mark  upon 
him.  He  was  not  indeed  the  sort  of  man  who  could 
tolerate  a  friendship  which  ignored  what  he  felt  to 


EDMUND  BURk'E  69 


be  convictions  of  solemn  and  almost  religious  gravity. 
He  would  hold  out  his  hand  to  no  man  who  approved 
of  that  which  he  had  denounced  with  all  the  power 
of  an  intensely  earnest  nature.  He  made  his  creed 
the  sword  of  division,  which  cut  through  every  bond 
of  ancient  love,  of  lifelong  fellowship,  of  mutual  ser- 
vice. To  argue  whether  he  was  right  or  wrong  in 
this  is  futile  :  it  was  for  him  a  simple  necessity  of  his 
nature.  It  was  the  price  he  was  prepared  to  pay  in 
what  he  deemed  the  service  of  truth,  and  he  paid  it 
with  unflinching  fortitude.  But  to  those  who  had  so 
long  loved  and  trusted  him,  all  this  seemed  not  so 
much  fortitude  as  obstinacy,  not  so  much  a  change  of 
view  as  the  recantation  of  every  principle  on  which 
his  life  had  been  built  up.  They  looked  upon  him 
with  sorrowful  eyes,  and  perhaps  felt  that  they  might 
well  quote  of  him  the  great  lines  which  he  had 
expounded  with  so  much  force  in  his  earliest  book : 

He,  above  the  rest 
In  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent, 
Stood  like  a  tower :  his  form  had  not  yet  lost 
All  its  original  brightness,  nor  appear'd 
Less  than  archangel  ruin'd,  and  th'  excess 
Of  glory  obscured  :  as  when  the  sun,  new  ris'n, 
Looks  through  the  horizontal  misty  air, 
Shorn  of  his  beams  ;  or  from  behind  the  moon 
In  dim  eclipse  disastrous  twilight  sheds 
On  half  the  nations  ;  and  with  fear  of  change 
Perplexes  monarchs. 

To  the  last,  disappointment  pursued  Burke.  When 
at  length  his  lifelong  labours  for  his  country  were 
about  to  be  rewarded  by  a  peerage,  his  only  son  died 
after  a  short  illness,  and  the  arrangements  for  the 
peerage  broke  down.  Few  passages  in  literature  are 
more  touching  than   that  in  which  he  laments  his 


70  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

son,  saying :  '  The  storm  has  gone  over  me,  and  I  lie 
like  one  of  those  old  oaks  which  the  late  hurricane 
has  scattered  about  me.  I  am  stripped  of  all  my 
honours  ;  I  am  torn  up  by  the  roots,  and  lie  prostrate 
on  the  earth.  I  am  alone.  I  have  none  to  meet  my 
enemies  in  the  gate.  I  live  in  an  inverted  order. 
Those  who  ought  to  have  succeeded  me  have  gone 
before  me.  They  who  should  have  been  to  me  as 
posterity  are  in  the  place  of  ancestors.'  The  image 
which  Burke  used  is  at  once  a  grand  and  true  one ; 
and  this  element  of  magnificence,  which  had  always 
distinguished  him,  characterised  him  to  the  end.  He 
is  as  impressive  in  his  solitary  old  age  as  in  the 
height  of  his  power,  and  presents  to  the  mind's  eye 
to  the  last  a  singularly  picturesque  and  striking 
figure.  He  stands  out  among  the  men  of  his  time 
with  a  grandeur  of  outline  such  as  distinguished  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh  among  the  writers  of  Elizabeth,  and 
the  same  vivid  personality  reveals  itself  in  all  his 
writings.  He  was  one  of  those  men  of  whom  pos- 
terity finds  it  difficult  to  form  a  judgment  high 
enough  to  be  accurate,  simply  because  the  man  was 
far  greater  than  his  works,  and  his  works  are  but 
fragments  of  a  mind  which  might  have  achieved  far 
higher  results,  had  his  life  been  free  from  the  cares 
and  vexations  of  party  warfare.  We  have,  however, 
to  take  him  with  the  defects  of  his  qualities ;  and  if 
he  has  not  the  calm  incisive  force  of  Bacon,  nor  the 
strength  of  Milton,  he  comes  near  to  the  one  in  his 
profound  grasp  of  principles,  and  the  other  in  superb 
force  of  expression,  and  is  entitled  to  be  ranked  with 
those  who  have  used  the  English  language  with  the 
noblest  flexibility  and  music,  and  for  the  service  of 
the  greatest  moral  purposes. 


CHAPTER    VI 

EDWARD   GIBBON 

[Born  at  Putney,   April  27,    1737.      First  vol.  of  Decline  and  Fall 
published,  1776,  the  last  1788.     Died,  1794.] 

When  we  pass  from  Burke  to  Gibbon,  the  sensation 
which  we  experience  is  like  a  change  from  the  tropic 
to  the  temperate  zone.  The  life  and  individuality  of 
Burke  are  full  of  vivid  colour,  and  impress  us  with 
a  sense  of  power  and  splendour.  It  is  easy  to  say 
that  they  are  sometimes  clothed  in  a  certain  meretri- 
cious glitter,  as  it  is  easy  to  find  fault  with  tropic 
scenery  for  a  gorgeousness  that  oppresses  us,  and  a 
fulness  of  light  which  is  monotonous.  But  when  we 
enter  the  region  of  grey  seas  and  clouded  skies,  we 
at  least  remember  with  regret  the  glory  of  the  realm 
which  we  have  left,  and  we  find  it  difficult  to  accustom 
ourselves  to  the  flat  outline  and  drab  colour  of  an 
environment  so  different.  Burke's  life  moves  through 
a  region  of  swift  and  magic  transitions,  and  is 
fascinating  from  first  to  last :  Gibbon's  travels  on 
a  plane  of  rigid  commonplace.  Johnson  and  his 
friends  impress  us  differently,  but  each  figure  is 
instinct  with  life,  and  allures  us  with  a  tragic  or 
pathetic  interest.  Gibbon  is  a  great  author,  but  we 
do  not  feel  him  to  be  a  great  man.  It  is  in  vain 
that  we  read    his   letters  or  study  his  journals,  to 

catch    some    gleams    of  that    alluring   individuality 

71 


72  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

which  has  often  made  the  lives  of  far  less  famous 
men  a  subject  of  perpetual  interest.  We  have  no 
report  of  his  conversations,  nor  is  there  upon  record 
a  single  saying  of  his  which  is  remembered  for  its 
wit,  its  insight,  its  brilliance,  or  its  epigrammatic 
force.  He  appears  in  the  pages  of  Boswell,  but  it 
is  only  as  a  lay-figure  on  that  crowded  stage.  Virtu- 
ally he  lives  only  in  the  immortality  of  his  one  great 
book,  The  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire. 
When  we  have  mentioned  the  book,  we  have  summed 
up  the  life  of  the  man. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  may  be  said  that  such  a 
statement  is  in  itself  impressive.  There  is  not 
another  example  in  English  literature  of  a  man 
who  dedicated  himself  with  such  entire  devotion 
to  a  single  task,  and  who  so  completely  subordinated 
himself  to  one  profound  literary  ambition.  When 
we  look  at  Gibbon's  life  from  this  point  of  view,  we 
cannot  help  feeling  that  it  is  after  all  illumined  by 
a  faint  and  yet  real  glow  of  poetry.  For  the  devotion 
of  the  scholar  is  not  less  noble  than  the  ardour  of 
the  poet,  and  his  steady  fulfilment  of  a  dominant 
purpose  is  scarcely  less  impressive  than  the  more 
rapid  and  public  triumphs  of  the  statesman.  We 
see  in  Gibbon  a  noble  example  of  what  one  great 
and  solitary  purpose,  clearly  conceived  and  reso- 
lutely followed,  can  make  of  a  life  that  otherwise 
might  have  been  wasted  in  epicurean  sloth,  or 
futile  and  confused  ambitions.  In  the  sickly  and 
dilletante  youth  of  Gibbon  there  was  nothing  that 
promised  greatness.  At  Oxford  he  learned  nothing, 
and  of  that  period  of  his  career  said  with  bitter 
truth  :  '  To  the  University  of  Oxford  I  acknowledge 
no  obligation,  and  she  will  as  readily  renounce  me 


EDWARD  GIBBON  73 


for  a  son  as  I  am  willing  to  disclaim  her  for  a  mother. 
I  spent  fourteen  months  at  Magdalen  College :  they 
proved  the  most  idle  and  unprofitable  of  my  whole 
life.'  But  Gibbon  had  that  which  Oxford  could 
neither  give  nor  take  away — the  inborn  ardour  of 
scholarship.  He  says  that  he  took  with  him  to 
Oxford  a  stock  of  erudition  which  might  have 
puzzled  a  doctor,  and  a  degree  of  ignorance  of  which 
a  schoolboy  might  have  been  ashamed.  For  this 
state  of  things  the  desultory  character  of  his  previous 
education  is  to  be  blamed.  A  great  or  finished 
scholar  he  never  was,  in  the  sense  in  which  we 
reckon  Porson  or  Bentley  great  and  finished,  or 
indeed  in  the  degree  to  which  many  other  men  of 
his  generation  attained.  But  he  brought  with  him  to 
the  toils  of  scholarship  a  literary  instinct  and  a  power 
of  using  knowledge  which  men  like  Porson  lacked  ; 
and  thus  his  comparatively  unfinished  scholarship 
was  of  far  greater  service  to  the  world  than  the  un- 
circulated wealth  of  their  more  recondite  learning. 

It  may,  indeed,  be  well  doubted  whether  a  univer- 
sity training  does  not  do  more  to  impede  the  growth 
of  literary  genius  than  to  develop  it.  It  is  a  striking 
fact  that  a  brilliant  university  career  has  rarely  been 
the  portion  of  those  who  have  become  the  greatest 
forces  in  our  literature.  Among  poets,  Shakespeare 
knows  little  Latin,  and  less  Greek  ;  Byron's  residence 
at  university  is  more  notorious  for  its  dissipation 
than  its  scholarship ;  and  Shelley  is  expelled  from 
Oxford  while  yet  a  mere  boy.  Among  novelists, 
Scott  finds  his  education  in  the  free  life  of  the 
Border,  and  Dickens  in  the  streets  of  London,  while 
the  foundations  of  the  wide  scholarship  of  George 
Eliot  are   laid   in   the  quiet   life   of  a  Warwickshire 


74  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

farmhouse.  Among  our  modern  historians,  Grote, 
who  perhaps  was  the  most  scholarly,  was  not  trained 
in  a  university.  The  list  might  be  indefinitely 
extended.  In  Gibbon's  own  day  the  lives  of  Burke 
and  Goldsmith  furnished  striking  examples  of  the 
growth  of  literary  genius  to  which  the  ancient  seats 
of  public  learning  had  contributed  nothing.  The 
truth  appears  to  be,  that  while  a  university  may  do 
much  in  the  way  of  scholarly  training  and  discipline, 
it  is  apt  to  repress  originality,  and  to  turn  out 
scholars  who  are  moulded  after  a  common  pattern 
Had  Gibbon  pursued  a  distinguished  university 
career,  it  is  probable  that  he  might  have  become  a 
fellow  of  a  college,  or  even  a  bishop,  but  he  would 
never  have  been  the  historian  of  Rome.  He  has  him- 
self almost  lamented,  in  one  of  those  curiously  frank 
confessions  which  occasionally  enliven  his  memoirs, 
that  he  did  not  choose  'the  fat  slumbers  of  the 
Church '  as  the  goal  of  his  ambition.  The  lamenta- 
tion is  to  us  almost  as  ridiculous  as  the  chagrin  of 
Robert  Blake  when  he  failed  in  becoming  a  Fellow 
of  Merton.  We  can  perhaps  as  little  conceive 
Gibbon  swaying  the  crozier  of  the  bishop,  as  the 
great  admiral  of  the  Commonwealth  restraining  his 
energies  within  the  decorous  limits  of  an  Oxford 
Fellowship,  but  we  can  now  perceive  that  such  dis- 
appointments were  part  of  that  eternal  law  of  fitness 
which  works  in  human  affairs.  Perhaps  the  two  cir- 
cumstances that  did  most  to  fit  Gibbon  for  the  labours 
of  his  life  were,  first,  that  his  university  career  was 
brief,  and  second,  that  his  removal  from  Oxford 
resulted  in  a  residence  of  five  years  at  Lausanne. 

It  was  in  Lausanne  that  Gibbon  discovered  the 
bent   of  his   own    genius,  and    began    to   train   his 


EDWARD  GIBBON  75 


powers  after  a  method  of  his  own.  He  read 
voraciously  in  the  ancient  classics,  and  did  not 
trouble  himself  about  the  minuter  details  of  scholar- 
ship. His  tutor  wisely  left  him  to  himself,  and  his 
reading  thus  became  not  a  drudgery,  but  a  delight. 
In  Greek  he  made  but  slight  progress,  and  from 
'the  barren  task  of  searching  words  in  a  lexicon 
withdrew  to  the  free  and  familiar  conversation  of 
Virgil  and  Tacitus.'  He  easily  adapted  himself,  not 
merely  to  the  methods  of  Continental  life,  but  to  the 
ways  of  Continental  thought.  When  we  consider 
that  these  five  years  covered  the  most  formative 
period  of  youth,  we  can  appreciate  the  effect  they 
would  have  in  giving  freshness  of  outlook  and 
originality  of  reflection  to  a  mind  like  Gibbon's. 
They  freed  him  from  any  trace  of  insularity,  and 
moulded  his  thought  to  a  European  breadth.  French 
became  the  language  in  which  he  habitually  thought, 
and  of  that  contempt  for  foreigners  which  was  so 
common  even  among  educated  Englishmen  in 
Gibbon's  day  he  was  wholly  emancipated.  The 
result  of  these  combined  influences  was  that  when 
he  approached  the  great  work  of  his  life,  he  brought 
to  it  a  mind  trained  to  singular  breadth  of  vision, 
and  his  writings  have  always  been  among  those 
which  have  been  best  known  and  best  appreciated 
by  Continental  peoples. 

A  great  deal  has  been  written  about  Gibbon's 
coldness  of  nature,  but  one  can  be  by  no  means 
sure  that  there  is  any  real  ground  for  the  charge. 
A  careful  recapitulation  of  some  of  the  cardinal 
points  in  his  life  would  lead  us  to  a  different  con- 
clusion. At  sixteen  he  has  enough  religious  en- 
thusiasm  to  embrace   the   doctrines  of  Rome,  and 


76  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

to  take  up  precisely  the  intellectual  position  into 
which  Newman  was  driven  ninety  years  later.  In 
all  his  family  relationships  his  conduct  was  perfect. 
It  is  not  an  easy  position  for  a  son  and  heir  to  return 
after  some  years  of  foreign  education  to  find  a 
stepmother  in  possession,  and  his  own  prospects 
embarrassed  and  seriously  threatened.  But  the 
amiability  of  Gibbon  smoothed  all  difficulties  ;  his 
affection  for  Jlis  stepmother  was  deep  and  constant, 
and  to  the  last  he  was  always  willing  to  make 
sacrifices  that  her  jointure  might  be  made  secure. 
He  was  able  to  inspire  so  much  love  in  his  friend 
Deyverdun,  that  after  years  of  separation  Deyverdun 
could  say  that  he  had  not  passed  a  single  day  with- 
out thinking  of  him,  and  could  imagine  nothing 
more  conducive  to  the  happiness  of  both  than  that 
they  should  spend  their  old  age  together.  Years 
later,  when  he  was  greatly  enfeebled  in  health,  the 
news  of  Lady  Sheffield's  death  was  sufficient  to 
make  him  break  up  his  home  at  Lausanne,  and 
travel  home  post  -  haste  that  he  might  console 
Lord  Sheffield  in  his  sorrow.  In  this  journey  he 
was  accompanied  by  the  son  of  a  deceased  friend, 
who  was  proud  to  act  as  his  courier,  and  Gibbon 
remarks,'  His  attachment  to  me  is  the  sole  motive 
which  prompts  him  to  undertake  this  troublesome 
journey.'  These  are  scarcely  the  incidents  which  we 
should  expect  to  find  in  the  life  of  a  cold-hearted 
man.  And  over  against  such  facts  as  these  what 
is  there  to  set,  except  his  account  of  the  reasons 
which  prompted  him  to  renounce  his  boyish  love 
for  Susanne  Curchod,  afterwards  Madame  Necker : 
'  After  a  painful  struggle  I  yielded  to  my  fate  ;  I 
sighed  as  a  lover,  I  obeyed  as  a  son.'     It  is  not  an 


EDWARD  GIBBON  77 

unusual  thing  for  youths  of  twenty,  who  are  entirely 

dependent  on  their  parents,  to  be  driven  to  a  similar 

conclusion,  though  they  are  rarely  able  to  describe 

it  with  such  artistic  terseness.     Yet  it  is  upon  this 

circumstance,  and  the  unfounded  gossip  of  Rousseau 

which  sprang  from  it,  that  the  charge  of  cold-hearted- 

ness  against  Gibbon  is  based.     It  is  difficult  to  know 

what  the  accusers  of  Gibbon  want.    So  far  as  one  can 

judge,  they  are  aggrieved  because  he  did  not  defy 

his  father   and    elope  with  the  lovely  daughter   of 

the  Genevese  pastor.     The  comments  of  Rousseau 

are  both  spiteful  and  ridiculous.     He  is  glad  that 

Gibbon  left  her  alone,  and  he  detests  him  for  doing 

so.     If  he  had  taken  her  to  England  she  would  have 

been  miserable,  and  because  he  did  not  take  her  to 

England  he  is  a  heartless  trifler.     That  is  the  head 

and  front  of  his  offending.      If  the  charge  means 

that  Gibbon  was  not  reckless  and  romantic,  that  he 

did  not  spoil  his  life  to  gratify  a  boyish  attachment, 

and  an  attachment  which  later  years  proved  to  have 

been  anything  but  deep  on  either  side,  then  we  may 

freely  admit  it,  and  all   that  it  implies.     Gibbon's 

was  a  singularly  equable  and  amiable  nature,  and 

those  solid  qualities  of  affection  which  characterised 

his  conduct  in  the  most  difficult  circumstances  of 

his  life — circumstances,  moreover,  in  which  romantic 

people  are  often  apt  to  display  considerable  cupidity 

and  selfishness — may  very  well  be  set  off  against 

that  lack  of  unconsidered  passion  which   Rousseau 

and  his  followers  so  much  deplored  in  Gibbon. 

A  much  stronger  case  can  be  made  out  against 
Gibbon  on  the  score  of  his  lack  of  political  insight 
and  enthusiasm.  He  has  told  us  that  he  entered 
Parliament   without  patriotism    and  without   pride. 


78  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 


On  the  great   public   questions  which  agitated  his 
generation,  he  had  no  opinion  and  uttered  no  voice. 
He  never  once  opened  his  lips  in  the  House,  and  his 
services  were  limited  to  strict  party  docility.     He 
gave  his  vote  as  occasion  required,  without  troubling 
himself  with  any  inconvenient  scruples  of  conscience. 
He  never  grasped  the  political  facts  of  his  time,  and 
was  therefore  absolutely  destitute  of  any  real  vision 
of  their  meaning.      He  did    not   perceive  the   real 
issues  of  the  American   War.      Even  a  trifler  like 
Horace  Walpole  had  a  clear  view  of  the  case,  and 
spoke  of  it  not  merely  with  statesmanlike  prescience 
and    sagacity,   but  with    urgent    patriotic    passion. 
Gibbon  looked  upon  it  with  aggravating  nonchalance. 
He  appears  to  have  had  no  interest  in  a  struggle 
which  was  dismembering  the  empire  and  creating  a 
new  nation,  and  he  could  never  make  up  his  mind 
on  the  great  issues  which  were  involved.     He  was 
for  a  little  time  a  member  of  the  Board  of  Trade, 
with  a  salary  of  £1000  per  annum.     He  says  that 
he  never  received  so  much,  but  whatever  he  received 
it  was   more  than   he   earned,  for  the  duties  were 
purely  nominal.     This  was  one  of  the  abuses  which 
Burke  attacked  with  his  most  brilliant  vehemence 
in  his  great  speech  on  Economical  Reform.     •  This 
board/  said  Burke,  '  is  a  sort  of  temperate  bed  of 
influence,  a  sort  of  gently  ripening  hothouse,  where 
eight  members  of  Parliament  receive  salaries  of  a 
thousand  a  year  for  a  certain  given  time,  in  order  to 
mature  at  a  proper  time  a  claim  for  two  thousand, 
granted  for  doing  less.'     No  one  was  more  ready  to 
concur  in  the  truth  of  this  description  than  Gibbon 
himself.     He  was  cynically  frank  about  the  motives 
which  led  him   into  political   life,  and  the  price  he 


EDWARD  GIBBON  79 

put  upon  himself.  The  only  excuse  for  his  conduct 
is  to  be  found  in  the  fact  that  he  lived  in  an  age 
of  political  corruption,  and  that  is  but  a  shambling 
apology  for  an  historian  of  Rome  who  lived  in  the 
age  of  Burke.  But  the  truth  of  the  case  is  that 
Gibbon  never  ought  to  have  entered  Parliament  at 
all.  His  was  the  temperament  of  the  scholar  who 
lives  in  the  past,  and  is  without  vital  interest  in  the 
present.  His  friend  Deyverdun  knew  him  better 
when  he  wrote :  '  I  advise  you  not  only  not  to  solicit 
a  place,  but  to  refuse  one  if  it  were  offered  you. 
Would  a  thousand  a  year  make  up  to  you  for  the 
loss  of  five  days  a  week  ?  '  It  is  impossible  to  grudge 
Gibbon  the  two  or  three  thousand  pounds  which  he 
received  from  the  Government,  when  we  recollect 
the  sort  of  men  who  grew  wealthy  through  the  life- 
long plunder  of  the  public  purse,  but  his  best  friends 
must  always  regret  that  he  ever  accepted  it.  The 
Parliamentary  life  of  Gibbon  was  a  mistake  from 
first  to  last,  and  it  is  impossible  to  think  of  it  in  any 
other  way. 

When  Gibbon  turned  his  eyes  from  the  affairs  of 
English  politics  to  the  great  drama  of  the  Decline 
and  Fall  of  Ancient  Rome,  he  became  a  different 
man.  Unable  to  discern  the  drift  of  English  politics, 
or  to  understand  the  latent  forces  which  were  rapidly 
preparing  the  French  Revolution,  he  pierced  at  once 
to  the  secret  causes  which  broke  up  the  greatest 
empire  of  antiquity,  and  he  surveyed  that  tremendous 
scene  with  an  intellectual  insight  which  genius  alone 
could  confer.  Hitherto  he  had  engaged  in  no  pursuit 
which  had  really  liberated  the  highest  qualities  of 
his  mind  or  truly  interested  him.  He  had  been 
indifferent  to  love,  indifferent    to  the  military  duties 


80  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

which  absorbed  his  early  manhood,  and  he  was  indif- 
ferent to  the  public  life  of  England.  But  the  idea  of 
the  mighty  empire  of  ancient  Rome,  the  glory  of  its 
power,  the  disintegration  of  its  strength,  the  long 
record  of  battles  and  sieges  which  dragged  it  to  its 
fall,  the  internal  movements  which  undermined  its 
despotism  and  shook  its  pride,  the  five  centuries  of 
that  sure  and  splendid  decay,  and  the  final  pathetic 
contrast  between  the  Rome  of  the  Caesars  and  Rome 
as  it  is  to-day — a  spoliated  glory,  a  ruined  splendour, 
yet  still  magnificent  and  imposing  in  its  very  desola- 
tion— this  was  the  spectacle  which  suddenly  broke 
the  lethargy  of  Gibbon's  mind,  and  emancipated  it 
with  a  glorious  liberty.  It  is  not  infrequent  to  find  a 
really  great  mind  sunk  in  apathy  for  want  of  a  com- 
pelling thought,  a  dominant  idea,  a  commensurate 
ambition.  Then  something  rouses  such  a  mind,  and 
at  the  touch  of  a  magic  wand  its  slumber  is  broken. 
Some  hint  drops  like  a  seed  into  its  prepared  soil, 
and  the  mind  becomes  so  renewed  and  vitalised  that 
henceforth  it  scarcely  seems  the  same.  This  was 
precisely  the  history  of  Gibbon's  intellect.  The 
moment  when  his  imaginative  sympathy  was  touched 
with  the  thought  of  the  past  glory  and  present 
degradation  of  Rome,  was  the  moment  that  freed  all 
the  latent  powers  of  his  genius,  as  ice  is  thawed  by 
the  sudden  burst  of  summer  warmth.  And  in  that 
moment,  also,  his  years  of  wide  and  irregular  study 
bore  fruit.  A  point  of  combination  had  been  found 
for  his  immense  knowledge.  He  had  builded  better 
than  he  knew,  and  on  that  foundation  of  undisci- 
plined scholarship  which  he  had  laid  by  his  own 
unaided  industry,  there  was  to  rise  the  edifice  of  an 
imperishable  fame. 


EDWARD  GIBBON  81 


There  are  two  noble  passages  in  Gibbon's  writings 
which  are  known  to  all  readers.  The  first  is  the 
narration  of  the  inception  of  his  work.  '  It  was  at 
Rome,'  says  he,  'on  the  15th  October  1764,  as  I  sat 
musing  amid  the  ruins  of  the  Capitol,  while  the 
barefooted  friars  were  singing  vespers  in  the  Temple 
of  Jupiter,  that  the  idea  of  writing  the  decline  and 
fall  of  the  city  first  started  in  my  mind.'  The  other 
tells  the  story  of  its  conclusion.  It  was  'on  the  day, 
or  rather  the  night,  of  the  27th  of  June  1787, 
between  the  hours  of  eleven  and  twelve,  I  wrote  the 
last  lines  of  the  last  page  in  a  summer-house  in  my 
garden.  After  laying  down  my  pen,  I  took  several 
turns  in  a  berceau,  or  covered  walk  of  acacias,  which 
commands  a  prospect  of  the  country,  the  lake,  and 
the  mountains.  The  air  was  temperate,  the  sky  was 
serene,  the  silver  orb  of  the  moon  was  reflected  from 
the  waters,  and  all  Nature  was  silent.  I  will  not 
dissemble  the  first  emotions  of  joy  on  the  recovery 
of  my  freedom,  and  perhaps  the  establishment  of  my 
fame.  But  my  pride  was  soon  humbled,  and  a  sober 
melancholy  was  spread  over  my  mind,  by  the  idea 
that  I  had  taken  an  everlasting  leave  of  an  old  and 
agreeable  companion,  and  that  whatsoever  might  be 
the  future  fate  of  my  history,  the  life  of  the  historian 
must  be  short  and  precarious.'  The  real  story  of 
Gibbon's  life — all  that  the  world  desires  to  know — 
lies  between  these  years.  He  has  himself  told  us 
that  at  first  he  surveyed  his  project  at  'an  awful 
distance.'  He  began  with  the  idea  of  writing  the 
history  of  the  decline  of  a  city,  and  did  not  realise 
how  vast  was  the  field  which  he  was  destined  to 
occupy.  If  he  had  foreseen  in  that  moment  of 
sympathetic  musing,  under  the  shadow  of  the  Temple 

F 


82  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

of  Jupiter,  the  immense  toil  of  his  undertaking, 
perhaps  he  would  have  renounced  it ;  and  if  he  had 
not  wandered  among  the  ruins  of  the  Capitol,  and 
the  melody  of  the  vespers  had  not  touched  some 
finer  chord  in  his  nature  on  that  eventful  evening, 
perhaps  his  great  book  would  never  have  been 
written.  But  we  may  call  a  truce  to  such  conjec- 
tures. It  is  by  such  seeming  accidents  that  great 
minds  are  prepared  for  great  achievements,  and  in 
that  October  evening  Gibbon  found  his  life-work, 
literally  the  task  which  was  henceforth  to  absorb 
every  working  moment  of  his  life. 

The  abiding  significance  of  Gibbon's  great  book 
lies  in  the  fact  that  it  is  the  first  great  history  of 
modern  times.  It  was  not  until  the  middle  of  the 
eighteenth  century  that  historic  studies  assumed  a 
large  importance.  The  materials  of  history  existed 
in  abundance,  but  the  art  of  combining  into  one 
homogeneous  whole  the  scattered  memoirs,  chronicles, 
and  documents,  in  which  the  past  had  received  a 
sort  of  piecemeal  entombment,  was  yet  in  its  infancy. 
Great  historic  collections,  like  those  of  Rymer  and 
Leibnitz,  existed  ;  but  the  art  of  writing  history  had 
scarcely  passed  beyond  the  stage  of  rudimentary 
chronicle.  Voltaire  commenced  the  new  historic 
epoch  in  his  Age  of  Louis  XI V.,  published  in  175 1,  and 
David  Hume  with  his  History  of  England,  the  first 
volume  of  which  was  published  in  1754.  But  it  can 
hardly  be  questioned  that  these  histories  were  in 
themselves  but  tentative  experiments  in  a  new 
method.  Hume  made  little  pretence  to  research,  and 
Robertson,  who  followed  in  his  footsteps,  made  less. 
Both  wrote  excellently,  and  Hume's  History  is  still 
a  masterpiece  of  style.     What  still  remained  to  be 


EDWARD  GIBBON  S3 


done  was  to  approach  the  study  of  history  in  the 
spirit  of  scholarly  inquiry,  to  treat  it  with  a  true 
comprehension  of  principles,  and  in  a  broad  and 
impartial  temper.  For  this  task  Gibbon  was  admir- 
ably fitted.  In  an  unconscious  fashion  his  whole 
life  had  been  his  preparation  for  it.  He  did  not 
aim,  like  Hume,  at  writing  merely  a  lucid  record, 
notable  for  its  literary  qualities  rather  than  its 
research  ;  nor  did  he  simply  take  a  theme,  and  write 
upon  it  for  the  sake  of  its  picturesque  possibilities,  as 
did  Robertson.  He  brought  to  his  task  a  mind  that 
had  been  steeped  from  boyhood  in  literature  of  the 
past.  He  had  spared  no  pains  to  qualify  himself  for 
his  work.  He  had  sedulously  profited  by  every 
means  of  preparation  that  the  scholarship  of  his  time 
afforded.  In  this  he  was  the  forerunner  of  Grote 
and  Macaulay,  and  stands  in  the  field  of  history  as 
the  first  modern.  Later  historians  have  improved 
upon  his  methods  and  corrected  his  judgments,  but 
his  method  has  nevertheless  been  generally  adopted  ; 
and  no  higher  testimony  to  his  work  can  be  found 
than  the  verdict  of  Mr.  Freeman,  that  '  whatever  else 
is  read,  Gibbon  must  be  read  too.' 

Gibbon's  idea  of  history  was  a  great  series  of  im- 
posing scenes,  a  vast  panorama,  full  of  movement,  life, 
and  brilliance,  but  buttressed  at  all  points  by  solid  and 
competent  scholarship.  There  is  a  gorgeousness  and 
pomp  about  Gibbon's  history  which  has  never  been 
surpassed.  The  sentences  move  with  stately  measure, 
as  it  were,  to  the  sound  of  some  vast  and  reverberat- 
ing music.  He  never  drops  into  commonplace  or 
becomes  colloquial.  It  would  perhaps  be  better  if 
he  did.  There  is  something  in  the  acute  criticism 
of   Porson,    'that    he   draws    out   the   thread  of  his 


84  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

verbosity  finer  than  the  staple  of  his  argument,  and 
occasionally  reminds  us  of  that  great  man  Mr.  Prig, 
the  auctioneer,  whose  manner  was  so  inimitably  fine 
that  he  had  as  much  to  say  upon  a  ribbon  as  a 
Raphael.'  The  style  naturally  becomes  oppressive 
from  its  very  stateliness,  and  the  mind  wearies  of  its 
sustained  pomp  and  splendour.  His  epigrams  are 
wrought  with  laborious  skill,  and  his  sentences  move 
from  climax  to  climax,  in  a  long  and  majestic  pro- 
cession, which  suggests  the  phalanx  of  a  Roman 
army.  It  is  pre-eminently  an  artificial  style  as 
distinguished  from  a  simple  style.  But  when  this  is 
said,  the  worst  is  said  that  can  be  said.  Pompous  as 
it  is,  the  style  is  appropriate.  The  whole  story  is 
so  magnificent,  it  commands  such  an  extraordinary 
retrospect  of  human  greatness,  that  an  historian  may 
well  be  pardoned  if  he  lavishes  upon  it  all  the  adorn- 
ments of  a  splendid  rhetoric.  And  it  must  be  added 
also,  in  all  justice,  that  an  admirable  lucidity  charac- 
terises it  from  first  to  last.  If  it  is  never  colloquial, 
it  is  never  slovenly  ;  if  it  is  sometimes  grandiloquent, 
it  is  always  clear ;  and  if  it  is  not  supple,  it  is  always 
powerful  and  impressive. 

The  great  blot  on  Gibbon's  History  is  the  entirely 
misleading  and  offensive  account  which  he  gives  of 
the  early  Christians  in  the  two  famous  chapters 
which  conclude  his  first  volume.  From  his  early 
enthusiasm  for  the  Church  of  Rome  he  soon  relapsed 
into  a  sort  of  complacent  and  good-humoured 
Voltairism,  and  this  temper  characterised  his  entire 
life.  He  has  none  of  the  gibing  bitterness  of  Voltaire, 
none  of  his  airy  wit :  he  is  simply  full  of  good- 
natured  contempt  for  religion.  The  religious  side 
of  his  nature,  like  Darwin's,  seemed  to  have  suffered 


EDWARD  GIBBON  85 


from  permanent  atrophy.  His  whole  mind  had  been 
occupied  with  other  subjects,  and  he  was  really 
incapable  of  understanding  the  sublime  enthusiasms 
out  of  which  Christianity  was  born.  Thus,  when  he 
is  forced  to  deal  with  the  rise  of  Christianity,  he  is 
consistently  unjust  because  he  is  ignorant,  and  his 
ignorance  is  of  that  species  which  no  scholarship 
could  overcome.  He  does  not  understand  the  heart 
of  man,  and  is  a  stranger  to  its  spiritual  aspirations. 
He  attributes  the  growth  of  Christianity  to  the  zeal 
of  the  Christians ;  but  he  does  not  tell  us  how  that 
zeal  was  kindled.  He  says  that  the  doctrine  of  a 
future  life  made  Christianity  a  fruitful  force,  but  he 
does  not  tell  us  how  it  was  that  the  doctrine,  which 
had  never  been  more  than  the  vague  hope  of  ancient 
poets,  suddenly  became  the  intense  conviction  of 
vast  masses  of  people,  who  were  ready  to  stake  their 
whole  lives  upon  it.  He  attributes  the  noble  virtues 
of  the  primitive  Christians  to  their  care  for  their 
reputation,  as  if  the  fear  of  Mrs.  Grundy  could  ever 
have  been  sufficient  to  turn  the  current  of  notoriously 
dissolute  lives,  in  a  notoriously  dissolute  time,  and 
inspire  the  austerest  chastity  and  purity  in  the  hearts 
of  millions.  He  says  that  the  union  and  discipline 
of  the  Christian  republic  were  the  sources  of  its 
growth  ;  but  he  forgets  to  tell  us  what  was  the  basis 
of  the  union,  and  out  of  what  compelling  forces  the 
organism  of  the  Christian  Church  arose.  The  spirit 
of  the  mystic,  the  saint,  and  the  martyr  is  incompre- 
hensible to  him.  He  had  no  spiritual  sensitiveness, 
no  pious  aspiration,  and  he  cannot  understand  them 
in  others.  Admirably  fitted  as  he  was  in  all  other 
respects  for  his  great  task,  he  was  absolutely  unfitted, 
by  the  very  nature  of  his  own  mind,  for  this  most 


86  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

important  section  of  it.  These  two  chapters  mark 
the  limitations  of  Gibbon's  mind,  and  are  an  impres- 
sive revelation  of  the  essential  earthliness  of  his 
nature.  They  have  long  since  ceased  to  be  of  any- 
controversial  value,  and  are  remembered  to-day  not 
for  any  damage  they  did  to  the  Christian  faith, 
but  for  the  reproach  they  cast  on  Gibbon's  historic 
fairness. 

Complacent,  epicurean,  studious,  Gibbon  was  essen- 
tially a  man  of  the  pre-Revolution  time.  A  drama 
not  less  marvellous  than  the  fall  of  Rome  was  pre- 
paring round  him  ;  but  he  ignored  it,  and  failed  to 
comprehend  it,  for  the  same  reason  that  he  failed 
to  understand  the  origin  of  Christianity — a  radical 
ignorance  of  the  human  heart.  Within  two  years  of 
the  completion  of  his  History,  on  the  very  night  his 
friend  Deyverdun  died,  the  Bastille  fell,  and  the  great 
Revolution  began  ;  but  he  seems  to  have  seen  nothing 
extraordinary  in  this  first  act  in  the  tragedy  which 
was  to  remake  the  map  of  Europe.  He  lived  his 
life  after  his  own  fashion,  and  saw  nothing  of  the 
world  that  was  travailing  in  the  birth-throes  of  a 
new  era.  His  books,  his  pen,  his  lettered  ease  were 
all  in  all  to  him.  It  is  a  perfect  picture  of  the  pre- 
Revolution  litterateur  that  is  given  us  in  this  vivid 
little  etching  of  Colman  :  '  On  the  day  I  first  sat 
down  with  Johnson  in  his  rusty-brown  suit  and  his 
black  worsted  stockings,  Gibbon  was  placed  opposite 
to  me,  in  a  suit  of  flowered  velvet,  with  a  bag  and 
sword.  The  great  historian  was  light  and  playful — 
still  he  tapped  his  snuff-box,  still  he  smirked  and 
smiled,  and  rounded  his  periods  with  the  same  air 
of  good-breeding.  His  mouth,  mellifluous  as  Plato's, 
was  a  round  hole,  nearly  in  the  centre  of  his  visage.' 


EDWARD  GIBBON  87 


It  is  the  picture  of  a  cheerful  epicurean,  quite  at 
home  in  the  world,  and  contented  on  the  comfortable 
assurance  that  it  is  the  best  of  all  possible  worlds.  He 
was  no  seer,  with  a  vision  of  the  deeper  forces  which 
move  the  springs  of  human  history  ;  no  leader  of 
men,  to  whom  men  could  look  as  a  tower  of  strength 
in  difficult  times.  And  therefore  it  is  that  we 
remember  him  as  a  writer,  not  as  a  man  ;  but,  never- 
theless, as  the  writer  of  a  book  which  cannot  be 
displaced.  Professor  Freeman's  verdict  is  his  high- 
est praise:  'Whatever  else  is  read,  Gibbon  must 
be  read  too.' 


CHAPTER    VII 

LORD   MACAU LAY 

[Born  Oct.  25,  1800.  Entered  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  Oct. 
181 8.  Obtained  his  Fellowship,  1824.  Milton,  his  first  essay, 
appears  in  Edinburgh  Review,  August  1825.  Member  for  Calne, 
1830.  Made  his  first  great  speech  on  Reform,  183 1.  Accepts 
post  of  legal  adviser  to  the  Supreme  Council  of  India,  and  sails 
for  Madras,  Feb.  15,  1834.  Returns  to  England,  1838.  Gives 
up  writing  for  the  Edinburgh  Review,  1844.  First  volume  of  his 
History  of  England  published  Nov.  29,  1848.  Raised  to  the 
peerage,  August  1857.  Died  Dec.  28,  1859;  buried  in  West- 
minster Abbey,  Jan.  9,  i860.] 

There  are  two  pictures  which  irresistibly  suggest 
themselves  with  the  mention  of  Macaulay's  name. 
The  first  is  of  the  Clapham  Sect,  among  whom  his 
childhood  was  spent.  The  sect  consisted  of  a  group 
of  men,  most  of  whom  were  deeply  pledged  to 
evangelical  principles  of  religion,  all  of  whom  shared 
the  fervour  of  great  philanthropic  enterprises.  Sir 
James  Stephen  has  sketched  the  group  with  vivid- 
ness and  fidelity,  and  has  given  the  hint  of  how 
noble  a  history  might  be  written  of  its  character  and 
work. 

It  was  in  the  house  of  Henry  Thornton,  the 
member  for  Southwark,  that  the  group  oftenest 
met,  and  were  to  be  seen  at  their  best.  There  was 
found  William  Wilberforce,  the  master  of  a  silver- 
tongued  eloquence  unrivalled  in  his  day ;  Granville 

88 


LORD  MACAU  LAY  89 

Sharp,  equally  remarkable  for  the  resolution  with 
which  he  dedicated  himself  to  public  purposes,  and 
the  grave  and  chivalrous  tenderness  of  his  private 
character ;  Gisborne,  known  by  his  love  of  Nature ; 
Lord  Teignmouth,  the  Governor-General  of  India ; 
Charles  Simeon,  the  head  and  representative  of 
Evangelical  Churchmanship ;  occasionally  Mackin- 
tosh, beloved  for  his  benignity,  as  well  as  admired 
for  a  genius  which  never  found  adequate  expression 
in  his  writings ;  and  Brougham,  whose  versatile 
ability  secured  an  admiration  which  his  character 
did  not  support.  But  in  all  this  memorable  group, 
the  most  remarkable  man  was  old  Zachary  Macaulay 
himself.  Silent,  austere,  heavy-browed,  there  was  a 
simple  grandeur  about  him  which  marked  him  the 
chief  of  all  that  brilliant  circle,  and  excited  a  faith 
approaching  to  superstition,  and  a  love  rising  to 
enthusiasm.  No  man  was  ever  troubled  less  than 
he  with  a  thirst  for  the  fickle  honours  of  publicity 
No  man  ever  cared  less  for  the  applause  or  fashion 
of  the  world.  He  was  one  of  those  rare  men  who 
are  content  to  toil  and  be  forgotten  if  the  cause  to 
which  they  have  devoted  their  lives  succeeds.  No 
stain  of  self-seeking  was  ever  discovered  or  suspected 
in  his  public  life.  He  did  right  with  a  noble  fear- 
lessness, and  the  dignity  and  heroic  temper  of  his 
character  arose  from  its  simplicity,  its  concentration 
and  its  rectitude. 

The  second  picture  is  of  that  group  of  Edinburgh 
Reviewers  among  whom  Thomas  Babington  Mac- 
aulay was  to  occupy  so  brilliant  a  position.  It  is 
not  easy  for  us  nowadays  to  understand  what  gave 
the  Edinburgh  Review  its  great  reputation  and 
authority.     It  professed,  of  course,  to  be  the  organ 


90  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

of  Whig  opinions,  but  there  is  abundant  evidence 
that  it  had  no  very  violent  passion  for  Liberalism. 
Scott,  who  was  as  sound  a  Tory  as  one  could  well 
imagine,  contributed  to  its  pages  for  years,  and  '  so 
late  as  the  end  of  1807  invited  Southey,  then 
developing  into  fiercer  Toryism,  as  became  a  "  rene- 
gade "  or  a  "  convert,"  to  enlist  under  Jeffrey.'  Nor 
is  the  secret  of  its  early  success  to  be  found  in  the 
brilliance  of  its  literary  achievement.  Most  of  the 
articles  were  hastily  written  by  men  who  had  other 
fish  to  fry,  and  bear  the  marks  of  shallowness  and 
carelessness.  Jeffrey  himself,  great  as  was  his  pre- 
tence to  critical  ability,  was  in  reality  as  bad  a  critic 
as  one  could  well  find.  He  echoed  rather  than 
guided  popular  opinion  ;  he  did  not  create  conditions 
of  popular  appreciation,  but  obeyed  them.  He 
gravely  discusses  the  immortality  of  Mrs.  Hemans' 
poetry,  and  says  (in  1829):  'The  rich  melodies  of 
Keats  and  Shelley,  and  the  fantastical  emphasis  of 
Wordsworth,  and  the  plebeian  pathos  of  Crabbe,  are 
melting  fast  from  the  field  of  vision.'  The  only  poets 
of  his  day  for  whom  he  predicts  fulness  of  fame  are 
Rogers  and  Campbell — the  very  poets  who  in  fact 
have  melted  fastest  '  from  the  field  of  vision.'  Still 
more  flagrant  is  his  error  in  selecting  the  finest  of  all 
Wordsworth's  poems,  the  Ode  on  the  Intimations  of 
Immortality,  as  hopelessly  absurd  ;  and  in  declaring 
Goethe's  Wilhelm  Meister,  which  Carlyle  had  just 
translated,  to  be  '  so  much  trash.'  The  real  reason 
of  the  success  of  the  Edinburgh  Review  was  that  it 
was  fresh,  independent,  and  afforded  an  open  door 
for  new  writers  who  manifested  anything  like  talent. 
When  the  Review  was  started,  no  one  conceived  of 
magazine  articles  as  other  than  ephemeral,  and  con- 


L  ORD  MA  CAUL  AY  91 


sequently  such  work  as  deserved  to  be  called  litera- 
ture— work  that  was  solid  and  noble  in  quality, 
first-rate  in  style  and  research — was  only  to  be  looked 
for  in  books.  It  was  Macaulay  who  did  most  to  set 
the  new  fashion.  He  and  Sydney  Smith  were  the 
first  to  use  the  magazine  as  a  stepping-stone  to 
Parnassus.  Yet  even  he  apologises  for  the  republi- 
cation of  his  essays,  and  explains  that  the  action  of 
American  publishers  has  made  it  necessary.1 

Yet,  when  all  deductions  are  made,  it  cannot  be 
denied  that  the  Edinburgh  Reviewers  make  almost 
as  fascinating  a  group  as  the  Clapham  Sect.  Jeffrey 
had  a  certain  pertness  of  intellect,  an  amusing 
vivacity,  and  a  real  kindliness  of  nature,  which  make 
him  both  interesting  and  lovable.  The  sunny  fresh- 
ness of  Sydney  Smith's  genial  humanity,  together 
with  his  quaintness,  his  unforced  humour,  and  his 
rollicking  laugh,  are  sure  passports  to  the  favour  of 
posterity.  Brougham  is  interesting  in  another  way. 
He  was  probably  the  most  terrible  contributor  that 
a  Review  ever  had.  He  could  not  be  said  to  lose 
his  temper — he  had  none  to  lose ;  a  more  irascible 
and  conceited  mortal  never  lived.  There  was  no 
limit  to  his  powers  of  vituperation  and  objurgation. 
It  was  impossible  to  satiate  his  appetite  for  praise, 
and  he  was  not  particular  as  to  the  quality.  Yet 
Brougham  was  a  force,  and  is  a  unique  figure  both  in 
politics  and  letters.  The  least  notable  of  the  group 
was  Horner,  of  whom  Sydney  Smith  said  he  had 
the  Ten  Commandments  written  on  his  face,  and 
looked  so  virtuous  that  he  might  commit  any  crime 
with  impunity. 

1  This  whole  subject  is  admirably  treated  by  Mr.  Leslie  Stephen  in 
the  third  series  of  his  '  Hours  in  a  Library.' 


92  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

The  most  brilliant  was  Macaulay.  With  the 
appearance  of  his  article  on  Milton  in  August  1825, 
the  Edinburgh  Review  entered  on  a  fresh  lease 
of  life.  Jeffrey  asked  in  astonishment  where  Mac- 
aulay had  picked  up  such  a  style.  It  was  the  lot  of 
the  young  essayist  to  wake  up  and  find  himself 
famous.  His  articles  so  impressed  Lord  Lansdowne 
that  five  years  later  he  offered  him  a  seat  in  Parlia- 
ment for  the  borough  of  Calne.  Previous  to  this,  in 
1828,  Lord  Lyndhurst  had  made  him  a  Commis- 
sioner in  Bankruptcy.  At  thirty  years  of  age  he 
had  already  achieved  a  splendid  reputation,  and  was 
on  the  high  road  to  fortune. 

English  literature  certainly  records  no  more  suc- 
cessful life  than  Macaulay 's  ;  the  current  of  fame  ran 
from  the  first  with  a  steady  and  increasing  volume, 
and  knew  no  obstacles.  He  did  not  experience 
what  it  was  to  wait  for  the  tardy  recognition  of  an 
undiscerning  public.  One  reason  for  this  was  that 
he  wrote  in  a  form  which  was  admirably  calculated 
to  appeal  to  the  average  intelligence.  He  was 
neither  too  high  nor  too  deep  ;  without  writing  as  a 
party  hack,  he  yet  managed  to  be  judiciously 
partisan,  and  to  echo  popular  opinion ;  without 
being  original,  he  had  struck  out  a  new  path  for 
himself,  and  was  the  inventor  of  a  new  method. 
His  was  not  one  of  the  great  'seminal  minds'  of 
literature :  his  popularity  was  sufficient  token  of 
that.  He  travelled  along  a  broad  and  well  trodden 
road,  but  with  distinction  and  splendour.  The  very 
trials  of  his  life  became  new  factors  in  the  furthering 
of  his  success.  It  is  curious  for  us  to  learn,  in  these 
days  of  high-priced  magazine  articles,  that  Macaulay 
never  earned  more  than  £200  per  annum  from  the 


L  ORD  MA  CA  ULA  Y  93 

Edinburgh  Review.  But  the  narrowness  of  his  means 
drove  him  to  India,  and  his  residence  in  India 
broadened  his  views,  and  gave  him  leisure  for  study, 
and  a  grasp  of  practical  statesmanship.  Two  of  his 
most  famous  essays,  those  on  Clive  and  Warren 
Hastings,  could  scarcely  have  been  written  without 
his  Indian  experience,  and  when  he  returned  from 
his  brief  exile  it  was  as  a  man  of  fortune.  Nothing, 
indeed,  ever  seems  to  have  gone  wrong  with  Mac- 
aulay.  He  had  a  sound  head,  a  sound  digestion, 
and  a  comfortable  assurance  of  himself.  He  stepped 
into  the  arena  amid  a  peal  of  praise,  and  the  plaudits 
never  ceased  while  he  occupied  it.  Laborious  as  his 
preparation  for  writing  often  was,  he  was  insensible  of 
the  labour,  and  he  wrote  in  pure  joyousness  of  heart, 
and  out  of  a  redundant  fulness  of  knowledge.  It  would 
be  difficult  to  find  any  parallel  to  the  even,  unbroken, 
and  consistent  success  which  characterised  his  career. 
It  is  unnecessary  to  dwell  upon  the  well-known 
incidents  of  Macaulay's  life.  Sir  George  Trevelyan's 
fascinating  biography  is  within  reach  of  all.  Such 
a  triumph  as  Macaulay's  could  not  be  repeated  in 
our  own  day,  because  many  of  the  conditions  have 
passed  away.  It  is  not  in  the  power  of  statesmen  in 
our  time  to  reward  famous  essayists  by  the  presenta- 
tion of  pocket-boroughs ;  nor  is  literature  generally 
considered  a  happy  apprenticeship  to  political  power. 
But  fortunate  in  this,  as  in  everything  else,  Macaulay 
appeared  just  in  time  to  profit  by  the  best  qualities 
of  a  social  system  which  was  passing  away,  and  to 
inherit  the  opportunities  of  a  better  condition  of 
things  which  was  beginning  to  exist.  He  early 
obtained  admission  to  that  brilliant  circle  which 
gathered   round    Lady   Holland.     It  says   much   for 


94  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

the  sturdy  manhood  of  Macaulay  that  Lady  Hol- 
land never  attempted  to  practise  on  him  those 
imperious  airs  and  petulant  caprices,  which  so  often 
made  her  drawing-room  a  place  of  torture  to  the 
more  sensitive  guest.  It  says  much  also  for  his 
social  charm  that  Lady  Holland  wept,  protested, 
and  refused  to  be  comforted,  on  his  departure  to 
India,  and  altogether  behaved  as  if  her  assemblies 
would  be  intolerable  without  him.  But  Macaulay 
had  the  knack  of  captivating  all  sorts  of  people — 
even  Samuel  Rogers.  He  had  homeliness  and  good 
humour  as  well  as  genius.  No  man  of  great  parts 
was  ever  afflicted  less  with  a  sense  of  his  own  im- 
portance. Carlyle  once  observed  his  face  in  repose, 
and  said  :  '  I  noticed  the  homely  Norse  features  that 
you  find  everywhere  in  the  Western  Isles,  and  I 
thought  to  myself,  "  Well,  any  one  can  see  that  you 
are  an  honest,  good  sort  of  fellow,  made  out  of  oat- 
meal." '  In  the  same  spirit  Goldwin  Smith  speaks  of 
the  homeliness  of  Macaulay's  appearance,  and  says 
that,  but  for  the  eyes,  his  was  the  sort  of  face  you 
might  expect  above  a  cobbler's  apron.  He  inherited 
something  of  old  Zachary  Macaulay's  simplicity  of 
nature,  and  had  no  pretence  about  him  and  disliked 
it  in  others.  He  was  thoroughly  honest  in  his  loves 
and  hatreds.  He  had  a  refreshing  way  of  taking 
his  own  course,  and  of  being  entirely  oblivious  of 
current  opinion.  He  was  never  guilty  of  hypocrisy 
in  matters  of  taste.  Thus,  whatever  we  may  miss  of 
finer  quality  in  Macaulay,  we  are  always  conscious 
of  the  sincerity  of  his  character ;  and  to  whatsoever 
heights  of  fame  we  follow  him,  his  nature  remains 
unpervertcd  and  impresses  us  by  its  solid  simplicity 
and  strength. 


L  ORD  MA  CA  ULA  Y  95 


As  an  author,  Macaulay  attempted  three  roles, 
and  in  each  he  won  phenomenal  success.  He  was 
at  once  poet,  essayist,  and  historian.  His  Essays 
are  practically  one  with  his  History  in  spirit,  method, 
and  style.  They  are  what  the  rapid  sketch  is  to 
the  complete  picture,  or,  it  would  be  fairer  to  say, 
what  the  small  canvas  is  to  the  larger  one.  His 
method  as  historian  and  essayist  is  very  simple : 
it  is  to  tell  a  story  of  facts  in  such  a  way  that  it 
shall  be  more  interesting  than  a  novel.  He  says, 
'  There  is  merit,  no  doubt,  in  Hume,  Robertson, 
Voltaire,  and  Gibbon.  Yet  it  is  not  the  thing.  I 
have  a  conception  of  history  more  just,  I  am  con- 
fident, than  theirs.'  The  main  difference  in  his 
conception  was  that  he  aimed  at  more  minuteness, 
vividness,  and  artistic  setting  ;  thus  he  was  more 
pictorial  and  dramatic,  and  for  this  reason  more 
effective.  '  For  this,'  says  Dr.  J.  Hutchison  Stirling, 
1  he  amassed,  even  while  at  college,  and  year  after 
year  industriously  afterwards,  all  those  great  stores 
of  reading  and  information  which  bore  directly  or 
indirectly  on  this  great  subject.  For  this  he  tried 
himself  in  relevant  periodical  papers,  and  feared  no 
waste  ;  for  he  said  to  himself,  cheerily  and  proudly : 
'  One  day,  in  the  long  evening  of  my  life,  I  will  throw 
over  these,  connecting  them  into  oneness,  the  bulk 
of  an  entire  history  ;  and  this  history  over  these 
essays  shall  be  as  the  great  dome  of  a  cathedral 
that  closes  unitingly  over  its  many  rich  and  splendid 
chapels.'  Perhaps,  in  this  conception  of  how  history 
should  be  written,  the  weakest  point  is  the  immense 
accumulation  of  detail.  The  five  volumes  which  he 
wrote  cover  only  fifteen  years;  and  had  he  carried 
out  his  original  idea  of  bringing  the   history  down 


96  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

to  the  reign  of  George  IV.,  and  upon  the  same  scale, 
at  least  fifty  volumes  would  have  been  needed.  It 
may  therefore  be  justly  doubted  whether,  in  the  con- 
ception of  how  history  should  be  written,  Macaulay 
is  really  superior  to  Hume  and  Gibbon. 

There  is  no  doubt,  however,  that  in  the  picturesque 
grouping  of  material,  Macaulay  has  no  superior,  as 
we  shall  have  occasion  to  remark  further  on.  This, 
indeed,  is  the  most  striking  quality  of  his  poems, 
as  of  his  prose  writings.  In  the  highest  sense  of 
the  word,  Macaulay  was  not  a  poet,  and  did  not 
claim  to  be  one.  He  had  no  ear  for  the  more  delicate 
music  of  words,  for  the  nobler  effects  of  rhythm. 
This  is  sufficiently  evident  in  his  prose,  where  the 
sentences  do  not  grow  out  of  each  other  in  natural 
order,  but  are  accumulated  one  above  another,  and 
often  fall  on  the  ear  with  a  sort  of  disagreeable, 
metallic  harshness.  But  the  power  of  pictorial  effect 
which  made  him  so  consummate  a  story-teller,  served 
him  equally  well  in  the  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome. 
Nothing  fascinated  him  so  much  as  civic  state,  the 
greatness  of  heroic  deeds  and  names,  and  here  he 
is  in  his  element.  His  power  of  painting  a  picture 
could  not  be  better  displayed.  But  he  does  some- 
thing more  than  this  :  he  succeeds  in  kindling  a  real 
enthusiasm  in  his  reader.  His  lines  are  terse,  clear, 
ringing  ;  his  narration  is  perfect.  The  force  of  these 
splendid  ballads  is  greatly  increased  by  their  sim- 
plicity of  structure,  and  the  fact  that  they  are  almost 
unadorned.  It  is  not  surprising  that  they  achieved 
a  phenomenal  success,  eighteen  thousand  copies 
being  sold  in  ten  years.  The  very  lack  of  the  higher 
qualities  of  poetry  would  help  their  sale,  as  really  as 
the  very  distinct  and  remarkable  qualities  which  they 


L ORD  MA  CA  ULA  V  97 


possessed.  While  we  admit,  then,  that  Macaulay 
was  not  a  poet,  yet  it  was  his  happy  fortune  to  invent 
a  species  of  poetical  writing  that  was  as  captivating 
as  his  prose  style,  and  is  still  unequalled  of  its  kind. 
Essentially,  the  qualities  which  underlie  the  Poems 
and  the  History  are  the  same  :  lucidity  of  statement, 
vividness  of  perception,  and  unique  power  of  pictur- 
esque effect. 

It  is  now  the  fashion  to  attack,  not  merely  the 
style  of  Macaulay's  History,  but  its  accuracy;  but 
with  this  latter  attack  we  have  but  little  sympathy. 
It  is  naturally  a  very  easy  task  to  find  instances  of 
erroneous  statement  and  imperfect  judgment  in  a 
history  executed  on  so  vast  a  scale,  yet  with  such 
minuteness  of  detail.  He  would  be  more  than  mortal 
who  could  tell  the  long  story  of  warring  factions  and 
intricate  statesmanship,  the  rise  and  dissolution  of 
parties,  the  disintegration  and  rebirth  of  empire,  the 
intrigues  of  courts  and  cabinets,  the  secrets  of 
embassy  and  diplomacy,  the  individual  force  and 
impression  exerted  on  their  times  by  actor  after 
actor  in  one  of  the  most  crowded,  various,  and  excit- 
ing periods  of  history,  and  commit  no  error  of  fact, 
pass  no  unjust  judgment,  and  be  led  into  no  mis- 
interpretation of  act  or  motive.  Undoubtedly  there 
are  errors,  and  serious  errors,  in  Macaulay's  famous 
History.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  merits  are 
conspicuous  and  unique.  He  marshals  his  facts  with 
a  masterly  precision  and  orderliness.  Never  was 
history  designed  on  so  vast  a  scale  before,  yet  with 
such  attention  to  minute  details.  It  has  been  happily 
likened  by  Mr.  Cotter  Morrison  to  a  Gothic  cathedral, 
where  every  separate  stone,  and  even  those  least 
likely  to  be  observed,  has  been  carved  with  exquisite 

G 


98  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

fidelity  to  art.  Every  paragraph  is  crammed  with 
information,  and  information  drawn  from  the  most 
obscure  and  unlikely  sources.  It  is  perfectly  amazing 
to  reflect  on  the  immense  amount  of  historical  infor- 
mation which  the  diligence  of  Macaulay  has  accumu- 
lated, and  the  grasp  and  tenacity  of  the  memory  in 
which  it  was  stored.  Darwin,  in  his  autobiography, 
describes  his  own  mind  as  a  sort  of  machine  for 
grinding  out  general  laws  from  the  mass  of  facts  and 
observations  which  it  had  accumulated ;  and  it  may 
be  said  in  the  same  way  that  Macaulay 's  mind  was 
a  sort  of  machine  for  the  accumulation  and  digestion 
of  immense  masses  of  historical  information.  But 
Macaulay  is  a  consummate  rhetorician,  which  Darwin 
was  not.  All  this  enormous  mass  of  knowledge  is 
shaped  and  used  with  the  finest  literary  skill,  and 
with  excellent  literary  judgment.  He  never  wearies 
his  reader,  and  never  retards  the  progress  of  his 
story  by  his  erudition.  Every  fact  is  fitted  to  its 
place,  and  has  its  exact  bearing  on  the  elucidation 
of  his  theme.  It  has  been  said  that  no  poet  but 
Milton  could  have  moved  under  the  weight  of  learn- 
ing with  which  his  poetry  is  loaded,  and  it  may  be 
said  with  equal  truth  that  no  historian  but  Macaulay 
could  have  borne  with  ease  the  gigantic  burden  of 
knowledge  with  which  his  History  familiarises  us. 
He  never  betrays  the  slightest  sign  of  weariness  or 
exhaustion.  The  very  structure  of  his  sentences  is 
full  of  life  and  briskness.  They  give  the  impression 
of  an  eager  and  alert  intellect,  impatient  to  get  on 
rapidly  with  its  task.  If  there  is  any  quality  in 
Macaulay's  style  which  produces  a  sense  of  weariness, 
it  is  that  it  is  almost  too  brilliant :  the  antitheses 
come  in  too  rapid    and   dazzling  a  succession,  the 


L  ORD  MA  CA  ULA  V  99 


rhetorical  artifice  is  too  little  concealed,  and  we  feel 
that  a  little  homeliness,  an  occasional  lapse  into 
simplicity,  would  be  a  welcome  relief. 

Yet  how  vivid  and  clear  the  style  is  !  Jeffrey 
might  well  wonder  where  he  had  picked  up  such  a 
style.  It  glitters  like  burnished  steel.  It  travels 
from  climax  to  climax  without  a  pause  to  draw 
breath  and  rest.  There  are  no  intervals  of  shadow, 
it  is  true ;  and  that  is  why  the  mind  tires  with  it, 
as  the  eye  is  oppressed  by  the  continuous  glare  of 
too  strong  a  light.  But  it  is  a  sustained  and  splendid 
pageant,  which  makes  all  other  modes  of  writing 
history  seem  flat,  stale,  and  unprofitable.  Its  pages 
are  a  long  succession  of  Rubens-like  pictures ;  and 
if  they  lack  the  grandeur  of  Rubens,  and  are,  like 
his  pictures,  often  coarse  in  colour,  they  are  always 
bold  and  vivid,  and  often  splendid  and  superb.  It 
is  not  the  sort  of  history  to  touch  the  heart.  The 
pictures  of  Rubens  are  not  the  pictures  which  touch 
the  heart.  They  amaze  us  with  their  wealth  of 
colour,  their  magnificent  scale,  and  their  mastery  of 
execution.  So  Macaulay  amazes  and  delights,  he 
excites  and  interests,  he  holds  us  spellbound  with 
the  witchery  of  his  art ;  but  he  seldom  touches  the 
emotions,  and  sensation  succeeds  sensation  so  rapidly 
that  we  have  scarcely  time  to  feel  deeply.  We  are 
hurried  on  as  men  are  hurried  on  in  the  shocks  and 
charges  of  a  great  battle,  and  the  excitement  is  too 
great  for  reflection.  Few  novelists  have  ever  dis- 
played half  the  art  of  sensationalism,  in  its  really 
legitimate  sense,  which  Macaulay  manifests.  He  is 
a  master  of  plot,  and  he  makes  the  commonplace 
facts  of  history  more  fascinating  than  romance.  And 
occasionally,  too,  he  is  profoundly  moved,  and  his 


ioo  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

words  quiver  with  genuine  enthusiasm  and  pathos. 
His  description  of  the  acquittal  of  the  Seven  Bishops, 
and  of  the  siege  and  relief  of  Londonderry,  are 
among  the  finest  instances  of  this  rare  display  of 
emotion  in  Macaulay.  They  are  not  merely  fine 
examples  of  pictorial  power,  but  they  palpitate  with 
genuine  moral  earnestness  and  enthusiasm.  They 
mark  the  highest  points  of  the  History,  and  are  the 
best  possible  proofs  of  Macaulay's  historical  genius. 

The  limitations  of  Macaulay's  genius  are  many, 
and  are  distinct  to  the  most  casual  observer.  Qualities 
and  defects  alike  appear  with  a  singular  definiteness 
of  outline.  Perhaps  his  worst  defect  was  a  habit  of 
imputing  motives  to  those  with  whom  he  disagreed. 
This  is,  perhaps,  as  it  has  been  well  described,  '  a 
vice  of  rectitude  ; '  but  it  is  not  a  pleasant  vice.  It 
leads  him  to  see  all  things  in  black  and  white,  to 
catalogue  the  characters  of  men  and  women  in  cast- 
iron  categories,  and  to  miss  those  finer  and  more 
delicate  shades  of  distinction  which  can  only  be 
discovered  by  a  sympathetic  insight.  His  world  is 
full  of  sheep  and  goats,  and  he  is  fond  of  antici- 
pating the  last  assize  in  his  methods  of  summary 
separation.  For  the  alpacas,  those  curious  creatures, 
which,  as  a  brilliant  writer  in  the  Nineteenth  Century 
once  remarked,  are  half  sheep  and  half  goat,  and 
belong  wholly  to  neither  class,  he  has  no  sympathy. 
He  is  intent  on  driving  them  into  one  or  other  of 
his  pens:  he  insists  that  whatever  art  of  simulation 
may  be  theirs,  they  are  either  good  or  bad,  and 
must  be  judged  accordingly.  Perhaps  the  strict 
Calvinistic  basis  of  his  early  training  had  something 
to  do  with  this.  The  theology  of  his  youth  was 
clear,  hard,  and  logical,  and  it  left  its  impress  for 


L ORD  MA  CA  ULA  Y  ioi 

ever  on  his  mind.  But  in  the  later  years,  when  he 
became  a  literary  artist,  it  limited  his  view,  and  gave 
him  a  touch  of  pharisaism,  a  dogmatic  assertiveness 
of  superior  virtue  in  his  judgments  of  men,  which 
was  at  the  least  uncharitable,  and  was  often  positively 
offensive.  We  miss  in  him  that  genial  humanity 
which  charms  us  by  its  catholic  kindliness.  He  repels 
us  by  this  vice  of  rectitude.  This,  for  example,  is 
his  view  of  Sir  Walter  Scott :  '  In  politics,  a  bitter 
and  unscrupulous  partisan  ;  profuse  and  ostentatious 
in  expense  ;  agitated  by  the  hopes  and  fears  of  a 
gambler ;  perpetually  sacrificing  the  perfection  of 
his  compositions,  and  the  durability  of  his  fame,  to 
his  eagerness  for  money ;  writing  with  slovenly  haste 
of  Dryden,  in  order  to  satisfy  wants  which  were  not, 
like  those  of  Dryden,  caused  by  circumstances  beyond 
his  control,  but  which  were  produced  by  his  extrava- 
gant waste  or  rapacious  speculation  :  this  is  the  way 
in  which  he  appears  to  me.  I  am  sorry  for  it,  for  I 
sincerely  admire  the  greater  part  of  his  works ;  but 
I  cannot  think  him  a  high-minded  man,  or  a  man 
of  very  strict  principle.'  There  is,  of  course,  some 
truth  in  these  strictures ;  but  Macaulay's  way  of 
putting  the  truth  is  so  exaggerated  that  the  general 
effect  becomes  untruthful.  This  is  not  the  real  Scott, 
the  genial  Sir  Walter,  whom  we  know  and  love. 
And  even  if  the  half  of  this  description  were  justified, 
who  can  read  it  without  a  sense  of  its  shocking  lack 
of  urbanity,  its  rudeness,  and  its  coarseness  of 
expression  ? 

Such  a  passage  as  this  is  the  clue  to  Macaulay's 
character,  or  at  least  to  a  certain  side  of  it.  What 
annoys  him  in  Scott  is  what  he  is  pleased  to  term 
his  '  extravagant  waste,'  his  '  ostentatious  expense,' 


102  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

his  'rapacious  speculation,'  his  agitation  by  'the 
hopes  and  fears  of  the  gambler.'  He  could  scarcely 
have  used  stronger  terms  if  he  had  been  dealing  with 
a  bankrupt  tipster  or  a  convicted  welsher.  The 
explanation  lies  in  the  fact  that  Macaulay's  own 
temperament  was  wholly  dissimilar.  He  had  a  horror 
of  extravagance  ;  and,  to  do  him  justice,  was  prodigal 
only  in  his  benefactions.  He  loved  quiet  and  simple 
life.  He  had  been  trained  in  a  hard  school,  and 
knew  the  value  of  money.  He  had  never  been 
tempted  by  risky  financial  speculations.  It  was  said 
of  him  in  later  life  that  no  man  in  the  city  of  London 
possessed  a  sounder  business  judgment.  His  integrity 
had  never  suffered  the  shadow  of  a  stain  ;  he  was 
upright,  and  proud  of  his  uprightness.  All  this  is 
to  be  accounted  to  him  for  righteousness ;  but  out 
of  it  was  bred  that  dogmatic  virtue  which  made  him 
hard  upon  all  who  did  not  quite  come  up  to  his 
own  standard.  What  was  openhandedness  in  Scott 
appears  to  him  extravagant  waste,  what  was  generous 
thoughtlessness  is  thriftless  folly,  what  was  the  reali- 
sation of  boyish  dreams — the  building  of  Abbotsford, 
and  the  founding  of  a  territorial  name — is  merely 
ostentatious  expense.  He  fails  to  recognise  that 
vein  of  romance  which  coloured  Scott's  life,  simply 
because  he  himself  was  the  least  romantic  of  men. 
He  calls  by  hard  names  what  were  at  the  worst 
amiable  weaknesses.  And  his  judgment  of  Scott  is 
paralleled  by  many  other  judgments  which  disfigure 
his  Essays  and  his  History.  He  sees  all  things  from 
a  comparatively  narrow  standpoint.  He  is  so  con- 
fident of  his  own  justness  and  omniscience  that  he 
admits  no  mitigation  of  penalty,  no  palliation  of 
error.     And  the  consequence  is  that  he  often  exceeds 


L  ORD  MA  CA  ULA  Y  103 

his  brief,  and  falls  into  exaggerations,  which  not 
merely  annoy  us  by  their  unconsidered  violence  of 
temper,  but  seriously  weaken  our  faith  in  his  historical 
judgment. 

It  must  not,  however,  be  supposed  that  Macaulay 
was  ever  intentionally  unfair.  On  the  contrary,  he 
strove  to  be  studiously  just.  But  even  Sir  George 
Trevelyan  has  to  admit  that  '  vehemence,  over-con- 
fidence, the  inability  to  recognise  that  there  are  two 
sides  to  a  question,  or  two  people  in  a  dialogue,' 
were  defects  inseparable  in  him  from  the  gifts  with 
which  he  was  endowed. 

To  him 
There  was  no  pain  like  silence — no  constraint 
So  dull  as  unanimity.     He  breathed 
An  atmosphere  of  argument,  nor  shrank 
From  making,  where  he  could  not  find,  excuse 
For  controversial  fight. 

When  Crabb  Robinson  describes  him  as  possessing 
'not  the  delicate  features  of  a  man  of  genius  and 
sensibility,  but  the  strong  lines  and  well-knit  limbs 
of  a  man  sturdy  in  mind  and  body,'  he  does  much  to 
reveal  the  character  as  well  as  to  recall  the  presence 
of  Macaulay.  The  faculty  by  which  he  understood 
men  was  a  certain  luminous  shrewdness,  and  it  took 
the  place  of  genial  sympathies.  And  it  must  be 
confessed  that  he  used  this  faculty  with  excellent 
effect.  His  letters  and  diaries  are  full  of  notes  and 
memoranda  on  great  personages,  clear  and  rapid 
etchings,  which  convey  at  a  stroke  his  impressions, 
or  the  reported  impressions  of  others.  He  notes 
the  table-talk  of  Rogers  with  evident  delight,  and 
putting  aside  the  acrimony  of  Rogers,  the  two  men 
closely  resembled  each  other  in  this  gift  of  luminous 


104  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

shrewdness.  Rogers  told  him  that  Byron  was  '  an 
unpleasant,  affected,  splenetic  person,'  of  whom 
thousands  of  people  ranted  who  had  never  seen  him, 
but  that  no  one  who  knew  him  well  ever  mentioned 
him  with  a  single  expression  of  fondness ;  and  Mac- 
aulay  remarks  that  the  worst  thing  he  knows  about 
Byron  is  the  very  unfavourable  impression  which  he 
made  on  men  who  were  not  inclined  to  judge  him 
harshly.  It  is  with  a  touch  of  something  like  cynic- 
ism he  notes  later  on  that  his  article  on  Byron  is  very 
popular,  and  is  one  among  the  thousand  proofs  of 
the  bad  taste  of  the  public.  But  Macaulay  was  any- 
thing but  a  cynic  ;  he  was  far  too  good-humoured 
to  be  really  spiteful  or  bitter.  He  was,  as  Crabb 
Robinson  says,  a  man  of  sturdy  mind,  robust  in 
thought,  clear-headed,  dictatorial  in  temper,  honest 
and  just  according  to  his  lights,  but  a  little  hard, 
a  little  lacking  in  delicacy  of  literary  perception,  and 
altogether  too  positive  and  controversial  in  his 
opinions  to  conceal  his  dislikes,  or  veil  them  in 
urbanity. 

'There  never  was  a  writer,'  says  Mr.  Gladstone, 
1  less  capable  of  intentional  unfairness,'  and  the 
biography  of  Macaulay  affords  plentiful  proof  of  the 
pains  which,  he  took  to  be  accurate.  He  complains 
bitterly  of  the  unfairness  of  Gibbon,  and  indorses 
this  peculiarly  stinging  paragraph  of  Porson's. 
1  Gibbon,'  says  Porson,  '  pleads  eloquently  for  the 
rights  of  mankind ;  nor  does  his  humanity  ever 
slumber,  unless  when  women  are  ravished,  or  the 
Christians  persecuted.  He  often  makes,  when  he 
cannot  really  find,  an  occasion  to  insult  our  religion, 
which  he  hates  so  cordially  that  he  might  seem  to 
revenge  some  personal  insult.      Such  is   his  eager- 


L  ORD  MACAU  LAY  I  o$ 

ness  in  the  cause,  that  he  stoops  to  the  most  despic- 
able pun,  or  to  the  most  awkward  perversion  of 
language,  for  the  purpose  of  turning  the  Scriptures 
into  ribaldry,  or  of  calling  Jesus  an  impostor.'  But 
Macaulay  is  quite  as  prejudiced  and  unfair  in 
another  way.  It  is  not  that  he  has  written  his 
History  in  a  spirit  of  vehement  partisanship,  as  is 
constantly  alleged.  It  cannot  be  said  of  him  that  he 
wrote  the  History  of  England  to  prove  that  God  was 
always  on  the  side  of  the  Whigs,  as  it  was  said,  with 
some  justice,  that  Alison  wrote  his  history  to  prove 
that  God  was  always  favourable  to  the  Tories.  On 
the  contrary,  when  we  consider  the  strength  of  his 
own  political  convictions,  it  must  be  owned  that  he 
has  shown  remarkable  self-restraint  and  equity  of 
statement  in  his  treatment  of  parties.  He  blames 
Whigs  and  Tories  alike,  and  visits  them  with  an 
equal  severity  of  castigation.  His  most  enthusiastic 
praise  is  often  awarded  to  high-minded  Tories,  as,  for 
example,  Bishop  Ken  and  Jeremy  Collier.  If  he  has 
spoken  harshly  of  the  Stuarts,  he  has  not  spoken 
untruthfully,  and  the  great  majority  of  competent 
historians  share  his  views.  But  it  is  in  relation  to 
individuals  that  his  unfairness  is  apparent.  His 
personal  likes  and  dislikes  govern  him  ;  his  prejudice 
makes  him  come  to  the  worst  conclusions  about 
persons  he  dislikes,  upon  the  most  insufficient 
evidence.  He  can  find  no  invective  strong  enough 
to  express  his  loathing  for  the  knavery  of  Marl- 
borough, the  foolish  vanity  of  Boswell,  or  the 
polished  hypocrisy  of  Penn.  Having  arrived  at  the 
conclusion  that  Marlborough  was  a  knave,  Boswell  a 
fool,  and  Penn  a  liar,  he  is  incapable  of  recognising 
any  counterbalancing  qualities  of  good,  and  every 


106  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

time  he  speaks  of  these  men  his  anger  and  derision 
become  more  violent.  Thus,  his  description  of 
Brougham's  vindictive  partiality  is  often  the  de- 
scription of  his  own  conduct :  '  All  the  characters  are 
either  too  black  or  too  fair.  The  passions  of  the 
writer  do  not  suffer  him  even  to  maintain  the  decent 
appearance  of  impartiality.' 


CHAPTER  VIII 

LORD  MACAU  LAY  {continued) 

So  strangely  is  human  nature  constituted,  that  it  is 
necessary  to  correct  any  false  impression  which 
Crabb  Robinson's  words  may  create,  by  stating  that 
in  some  respects  Macaulay  was  among  the  most 
sensitive  of  men.  If  we  are  conscious  of  a  certain 
glittering  hardness  of  mind  in  his  controversial 
diatribes  and  literary  verdicts,  we  must  also  recollect 
that  his  letters  and  diaries  give  us  perpetual  evidence 
of  the  goodness  and  tenderness  of  his  heart.  His 
whole  life  was  a  sacrifice  in  the  interests  of  his 
family,  and  a  sacrifice  which  gains  much  in  magna- 
nimity by  its  unconscious  and  uncomplaining  dignity 
of  endurance.  When  his  friend  Ellis  loses  his  wife, 
he  sits  for  hours  listening  to  his  confidences,  and  not 
attempting  to  console  him,  because  he  feels  that  the 
only  consolation  he  can  offer  is  the  sociable  silence 
of  the  sympathiser.  When  he  stands  in  Santa  Croce, 
he  notices  in  the  cloister  a  monument  to  a  little  baby, 
and  remembers  his  three-months-old  niece,  and  says, 
'  It  brought  tears  into  my  eyes.  I  thought  of  the 
little  thing  who  lies  in  the  cemetery  at  Calcutta.' 
He  is  easily  affected  in  the  same  way  by  great 
historic  memories,  or  by  pathetic  novels.  When  he 
stands  for  the  first  time  in  St.  Peter's,  he  says,  •  I 
could  have  cried  for  pleasure.'     He  is  much  moved 

107 


io8  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 


beside  the  tomb  of  Michael  Angelo,  and  at  the  grave 
of  Dante  says  :  '  I  was  very  near  shedding  tears  as 
I  looked  at  this  magnificent  monument,  and  thought 
of  the  sufferings  of  the  great  poet,  and  of  his  incom- 
parable genius,  and  of  all  the  pleasure  I  have  derived 
from  him,  and  of  his  death  in  exile,  and  of  the  late 
justice  of  posterity.'  On  his  journey  through  the 
Pontine  marshes  in  this  same  Italian  tour,  he  reads 
Bulwer's  Alice,  and  is  affected  by  it  in  a  way  he  has 
not  been  affected  for  years.  '  Indeed,'  he  continues, 
'  I  generally  avoid  all  novels  which  are  said  to  have 
much  pathos.  The  suffering  they  produce  is  to  me 
a  very  real  suffering,  and  of  that  I  have  quite  enough 
without  them.'  His  passion  for  Clarissa  Harlowe  is 
well  known.  How  many  times  he  read  that  pro- 
digious novel,  and  how  often  he  wept  over  the 
sorrows  of  its  heroine,  no  one  knows.  Every  one 
will  remember  how  he  justified  his  melting  mood  by 
the  story  of  the  way  in  which  the  book  was  read  by 
his  friends  at  an  Indian  station  in  the  hills:  'The 
Governor's  wife  seized  it,  the  Secretary  waited  for 
it,  the  Chief-Justice  could  not  read  it  without  tears; 
and,  finally,  an  old  Scotch  doctor,  a  Jacobin  and  a 
free-thinker,  cried  over  the  last  volume  till  he  was 
too  ill  to  appear  at  dinner.' 

Perhaps  one  explanation  of  some  of  these  defects 
which  we  have  enumerated,  is  that  Macaulay  injured 
his  literary  faculty  by  his  political  activity.  No 
man  can  serve  two  masters,  and  it  was  not  till  late 
in  life  that  he  chose  what  he  knew  to  be  the  better 
part.  The  practical  grasp  and  decisiveness  of  his 
judgment  were  admirable  qualifications  for  a  great 
party  leader.  It  is  very  easy  to  imagine  Macaulay, 
had    he   started    with    different   social    advantages, 


LORD  MAC  AULA  Y  109 

becoming  an  ideal  Premier.  As  a  parliamentary 
orator  he  ranks  with  the  highest :  the  cry  that 
Macaulay  was  '  up  '  was  always  sufficient  to  secure  a 
crowded  House.  His  admirable  lucidity,  his  power 
of  picturesque  narration,  his  definiteness  of  view,  his 
practical  grasp  of  the  main  issues  of  a  debate,  his 
hard-hitting,  his  vivacity,  his  eloquence,  were  pre- 
cisely the  forces  which  the  House  of  Commons  most 
appreciates,  and  which  do  most  to  lift  a  debater  into 
power.  But  these  very  qualifications  for  political 
life  were  disqualifications  for  literary  pursuits.  The 
oratorical  style  and  temper  are  fatal  to  the  perfection 
of  literary  style.  In  oratory  it  is  necessary  to  paint 
with  a  broad  brush  and  strong  colours,  because 
immediate  effect  is  the  aim.  The  more  delicate 
gradations  of  colour  are  not  noticed,  and  are  not 
needed  ;  but  in  literature  the  very  opposite  is  true. 
It  is  delicacy  of  perception,  sympathetic  insight, 
gradation  of  colour,  that  makes  style.  No  one 
knew  this  better  than  Macaulay ;  he  felt  that  the 
political  and  literary  lives  could  only  be  united  to 
the  detriment  of  both.  But  he  was  unable  to  shake 
himself  free  from  the  influences  of  the  House  of 
Commons.  The  sharp  divisions  of  opinion  which 
politics  had  taught  him  were  carried  with  him  into 
literature.  He  was  destitute  of  philosophic  calm  ; 
the  whole  force  of  his  training  made  him  take  a  side, 
and  the  exaggerations  of  colour  which  had  served 
him  excellently  in  parliamentary  oratory  were  still 
retained  in  historical  disquisition.  Had  Macaulay 
never  entered  Parliament,  had  he  been  content  with 
a  life  of  literary  production  from  the  first,  there  can 
be  no  doubt  that  his  work  would  have  been  far  more 
finished,  and  his   temper  far  calmer,  and  therefore 


no       THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

better   able  to  deal  with   those  great  problems  of 
personal  character  in  which  history  abounds. 

It  is  really  the  parliamentary  debater,  rather  than 
the  litterateur,  who  speaks  in  such  an  essay  as  that 
on  Robert  Montgomery.  Montgomery  was  a  bad 
poet,  and  an  absurd  poet,  and  his  popularity  was  a 
public  absurdity  which  deserved  denunciation.  Yet, 
after  all,  Macaulay's  castigation  was  out  of  all  pro- 
portion to  the  offence  ;  but  it  was  the  case  of  a  good 
opportunity  of  attack,  and  Macaulay  seized  it,  as  he 
would  have  seized  a  similar  occasion  in  the  House. 
One  suspects  that  in  this  and  in  many  other 
instances,  he  was  carried  away  by  his  own  im- 
measurable copiousness  of  vocabulary.  Adjectives 
crowd  upon  him  as  he  writes,  and  he  uses  not  the 
most  suitable  but  the  most  sonorous.  He  soon 
lashes  himself  into  a  fine  simulation  of  anger,  and  is 
the  victim  of  his  own  deception.  He  lives  upon 
antithesis — he  sees  human  life  itself,  and  human 
character  too,  as  a  vast  antithesis.  He  has  a  sort  of 
schoolboy  delight  in  the  use  of  a  telling  phrase,  and 
he  has  a  schoolboy's  carelessness  of  verbal  exactitude. 
He  is  not  content  to  inform  us  that  some  one  was 
a  bad  man:  he  tells  us  that  the  turpitude  of  his 
conduct  was  only  equalled  by  the  malignancy  of  his 
temper,  and  that  the  meanness  of  his  character  was 
paralleled  by  the  corruption  of  his  thought — or  some 
other  equally  sounding  phrase.  To  use  the  right 
word — the  one  right  word  in  all  the  English  language 
— which  illumines  with  a  flash  of  light  the  whole 
subject,  is  an  art  whose  rudiments  he  has  never 
learned.  He  excels  in  sonorousness  of  language — 
not  in  precision ;  and  in  this  respect  his  style 
resembles  Johnson's.     But  he  cuts  Johnson's   para- 


LORD  MA  CA  ULA  Y  lit 

graphs  up  into  sparkling  sentences,  and  uses  full 
stops  where  Johnson  used  colons.  He  retains  the 
balance,  the  antithesis,  the  pomp,  but  he  adds  a  new 
vivacity  and  glitter.  When  he  says  that  Johnson's 
style  is  '  sustained  only  with  constant  effort,'  and 
that  his  'big  words  are  wasted  on  little  things,'  he  is 
unconsciously  describing  his  own  defects.  His  own 
worst  literary  vice  is  his  lack  of  proportion,  and  his 
entire  inattention  to  those  laws  of  light  and  shade 
which  regulate  the  highest  literary  art. 

Macaulay's  essay  on  Johnson  is  in  itself  an  almost 
perfect  example  both  of  the  greatness  and  the 
limitations  of  his  power ;  it  displays  his  unrivalled 
faculty  for  the  collection  of  details,  and  equally  his 
all  but  total  lack  of  real  insight.  He  sees  Johnson, 
as  he  sees  all  the  personages  he  describes,  entirely 
from  the  outside.  He  categories  all  his  peculiarities, 
his  slovenly  disorder,  his  boorishness,  his  voracity, 
his  oddities  of  speech  and  gesture,  his  superstitions, 
his  humorous  petulances,  his  grotesque  absurdities, 
and  thinks  that  he  has  painted  the  man.  'Macaulay 
is  nevermore  at  home  than  in  such  scandal,'  it  has 
been  well  said;  'the  eating,  drinking,  and  clothing 
of  men,  their  mistresses,  their  warts,  their  bandy-legs, 
or  their  red  noses — Macaulay  has,  in  such  curiosities, 
absolutely  the  furore  of  a  collector.'  But  he  never 
once  recognises  the  grandeur  of  that  spirit  which  is 
concealed  beneath  this  uncouth  exterior.  We  must 
go  to  Carlyle  for  that  vision.  He  has  the  prophetic 
insight  which  interprets  the  whole  nature  of  a  man 
in  a  single  significant  phrase.  His  power  is  the 
power  of  understanding  the  soul  of  a  man.  Carlyle 
paints  a  portrait  which  lives,  Macaulay  constructs  an 
elaborate  mosaic.     Any  historic  personage,  even  the 


112  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

humblest,  who  has  once  been  bathed  in  the  searching 
light  of  Carlyle's  imagination,  is  henceforth  known  to 
us,  and  is  instinct  with  vitality.  But  the  most  we 
learn  from  Macaulay  is  how  such  a  person  dressed 
his  hair,  ate  his  dinner,  or  treated  his  wife.  Carlyle 
gives  us  the  essential  man  ;  Macaulay  enumerates 
the  mere  accidents  of  the  man's  life.  It  is  infinitely 
vivacious,  entertaining,  and  fascinating ;  but  it  is, 
after  all,  an  inferior  form  of  art  which  addresses  itself 
to  inferior  intelligences.  The  fact  which  stands  out 
most  clearly  about  Johnson  in  Macaulay's  essay,  and 
which  is  most  distinctly  remembered  after  many 
years,  is  that  he  tore  his  food  like  a  famished  tiger, 
and  ate  it  with  the  sweat  running  down  his  forehead. 
And  that  is  not  the  cardinal  fact  of  Johnson's  per- 
sonality. It  is  not  the  thing  which  is  best  worth 
recollecting,  or  even  worth  remembering  at  all.  But 
it  is  things  like  these,  obscure  and  trivial  traits  in  a 
man's  person  or  habits,  which  Macaulay  exalts  to 
first-rate  importance,  and  which  are  offered  us  in 
place  of  a  real  analysis  of  his  character,  a  true  insight 
into  his  soul. 

Not  that  Macaulay  is  without  imagination,  how- 
ever ;  it  is  simply  the  quality  of  the  imagination  that 
is  at  fault.  He  has  c  epic  clearness,'  if  he  has  not 
dramatic  intensity.  He  has  photographic  vividness,  if 
not  creative  genius.  There  is  ample  evidence  that  he 
did  not  even  understand  some  of  the  noblest  pro- 
ductions of  the  human  imagination.  He  derides 
Spenser,  and  calls  the  poetry  of  Wordsworth  inter- 
minable twaddle.  He  is  incapable  of  soaring  into 
the  higher  heavens  of  vision.  He  had  no  hours  of 
stillness  and  brooding  fancy,  out  of  whose  depths 
there  was  at  length  evolved  the  true  image  of  a  man 


LORD  MAC  AULA  Y  113 

or  a  period.  He  loved  the  concrete,  and  his  mission 
was  to  illuminate  and  vivify  it.  That  species  of 
imagination  which  fuses  a  vast  mass  of  facts  and 
details  into  one  glowing  whole,  was  his  in  perfection. 
We  have  already  seen  that  he  aimed  at  making  his- 
tory as  fascinating  as  a  novel,  and  that  he  has  done. 
To  do  so  he  treated  it  as  a  vast  portrait-gallery,  and 
did  not  trouble  himself  with  the  deeper  currents  of 
thought  which  characterised  a  period.  For  the  subtler 
forms  of  criticism  he  felt  himself  unfitted,  and  owned 
his  defect  with  that  perfect  candour  which  is  so  en- 
gaging a  feature  in  his  character.  He  says,  '  Such 
books  as  Lessing's  Laocoon,  such  passages  as  the 
criticism  on  Hamlet  in  WilJielm  Meister,  fill  me  with 
wonder  and  despair.'  There  is  no  limit  to  the  labour 
he  will  undergo  to  unearth  those  picturesque  details 
which  are  the  stage  properties  through  which  his 
most  striking  effects  are  produced.  But  when  he  has 
collected  his  details  he  is  content.  He  does  not  sift 
and  resift  evidence,  till  he  knows  exactly  how  a 
case  stood  :  that  is  Carlyle's  method.  He  does  not 
aim  at  expressing  himself  with  the  originality  of 
dramatic  insight.  He  simply  arranges  his  picture 
with  a  consummate  sense  of  effect.  He  has  not 
called  spirits  from  the  vasty  deep,  but  he  has  con- 
structed an  imposing  panorama,  in  which  the  great 
actors  of  the  past  move  with  an  excellent  simula- 
tion of  life.  The  appeal  from  first  to  last  is  to  the 
eye,  and  nothing  can  be  more  brilliant,  vivid,  and 
effective  in  its  way.  The  only  thing  is,  it  is  not  the 
highest  way  ;  it  is  panoramic,  but  not  dramatic  art. 

Macaulay  has  been  compared  with  Burke,  but  there 
is  no  likeness  between  the  two  men,  save  that  which 
is    purely   superficial.      Both   were   orators,  writers, 

H 


114  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

parliamentarians,  but  there  the  likeness  ends.    Burke 
was  an  original  force,  with  something  of  the  freshness 
of  Nature  in  him :  the  real  basis  of  Macaulay's  mind 
was  commonplace.     Burke  was  a  profound  thinker, 
and  Macaulay  was  in  no  sense  whatever  a  thinker. 
Burke  was  an  incompleter,  but  a  far  greater  man  :  a 
man  of  the  Titanic    order,  whereas    Macaulay   has 
nothing  of  the  Titan  in  him.     It  is  precisely  when 
we  compare  Macaulay  with  a  man  like  Burke  that 
we  become  most  conscious  of  his  real  inferiority,  of 
his  comparative  littleness.     We  see  then  that  what 
Macaulay   lacked   was   that   powerful    individuality 
which  is  inseparable  from  the  highest  genius.     He 
was  not  one  of  those  who  are  set  for  the  rising  or 
fall  of  nations,  the  potent  source  of  new  thoughts 
and  ideals,  new  impulses  and  forces  for  times  and 
peoples.     He  exercised  nothing  of  the  fascination  of 
real  greatness  over  his  contemporaries.     They  never 
speak  of  him  as  we  speak  of  Carlyle,  or  as  Reynolds 
spoke  of  Johnson.     They  all  acknowledged  his  bril- 
liant powers,  but  he  inspired  neither  animosity  nor 
devotion,  division  nor  discipleship.    His  conversation 
was  typical  of  the  man.     Sydney  Smith  complained 
that  it  had  '  no  flashes  of  silence,'  and  Carlyle  said 
contemptuously,  'Flow  on,  thou  shining  river!'     It 
was  a  vast  stream   of  erudition,  good  sense,  good 
humour,  occasionally  of  sententious  wit,  but  it  dis- 
played none  of  those  larger  human  qualities  which 
invest  the  table-talk  of  Johnson  and  Carlyle  with  a 
perennial  charm.    Somehow  we  are  always  conscious 
of  an  air  of  precocity  in   all    Macaulay's   displays. 
His  power  of  memory  is  greatly  in  excess  of  his 
power  of  reflection,  and  this  is  one  of  the  common 
vices  of  precocity.     But  be  this  as  it  may,  it  is  as  a 


LORD  MACAU  LAY  115 

superb  literary  artist  that  Macaulay  must  stand  or 
fall.  What  he  did  he  did  excellently,  but  again  we 
repeat  it  was  not  the  highest  kind  of  work.  Nor 
was  he  one  of  the  highest  kind  of  men,  and  that  is 
why  we  feel  it  to  be  an  impertinence  to  include  his 
name  in  the  category  of  Burke,  and  Johnson,  and 
Carlyle.  His  English  prototype  is  Hume  or  Gibbon; 
his  Latin,  Sallust. 

Perhaps  the  most  pleasant  feature  of  Macaulay's 
character  was  his  intense  enthusiasm  for  literature. 
It  was  a  real  and  beautiful  enthusiasm,  and  it  gave  a 
certain  dignity  to  his  thoughts,  and  is  the  source  of 
all  that  is  best  in  his  writing.  It  is  not  the  enthusiasm 
of  a  large  intellectual  life,  however  ;  real  as  it  is,  yet 
it  moves  in  a  comparatively  restricted  area.  He 
seems  to  have  had  no  interest  in  science,  in  modern 
poetry,  or  in  the  social  and  religious  problems  of  his 
day.  To  the  subtler  influences  of  thought  he  was 
simply  insensible.  He  was  impatient  of  philosophy, 
and  indifferent  to  religion.  But  he  loved  books  with 
an  almost  indiscriminating  passion.  He  read  again 
and  again  those  ancient  classics  which  most  interested 
him,  and  the  list  of  books  he  read  in  a  single  year  of 
his  Indian  life  is  simply  astounding.  He  was  fond  of 
walking,  but  he  always  walked  with  a  book  in  his 
hand.  In  a  walk  of  sixteen  miles  he  once  re-read 
six  books  of  Homer.  When  he  crosses  the  Irish 
Channel,  he  amuses  himself  by  sitting  on  deck  all 
night  and  repeating  the  Paradise  Lost  from  memory, 
noting  with  pride  that  he  can  still  recite  six  books, 
and  those  the  best.  He  was  a  genuine  hero-wor- 
shipper. In  his  Italian  tour  his  chief  pleasure  is  not 
found  in  the  beauty  of  the  country,  but  in  its  historic 
associations.     It  thrills  him  with  an  exquisite  delight 


n6       THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

to  tread  in  the  steps  of  Cicero  or  Hannibal,  and  his 
immense  erudition  invests  every  place  he  sees  with 
vivid  interest.  No  one  but  a  hero-worshipper  could 
have  written  the  essay  upon  Milton.  The  note  struck 
in  that  famous  essay  is  the  note  struck  in  all  his  writ- 
ings, or  all  that  is  noblest  in  them.  It  was  always 
with  a  sigh  of  relief  that  he  turned  aside  from  public 
duties  to  the  companionship  of  books,  and  he  said 
that  he  could  covet  no  higher  joy  than  to  be  shut  up 
in  the  seclusion  of  a  great  library,  and  never  pass  a 
moment  without  a  book  in  his  hand.  And  this  con- 
fession declares  the  man.  To  acquire  information 
was  the  real  passion  of  his  life.  He  was  not  interested 
in  the  study  of  human  nature,  and  had  no  love  or 
aptitude  for  meditation.  A  man  with  genial  interest 
in  his  fellows,  and  in  life  as  a  whole,  would  not  have 
walked  the  streets  of  London  with  a  book  in  his 
hand ;  and  a  man  with  any  faculty  of  meditative 
thought  would  scarcely  have  employed  a  long  starlit 
night  on  the  Irish  Sea  in  a  recitation  of  Milton. 

Great  powers  and  great  qualities  Macaulay  had, 
but  one  great  deficiency  is  always  felt :  he  has  no 
sense  of  the  Infinite.  He  has  no  sense  whatever  of 
the  mystery  of  life,  of  its  eternal  environments,  of 
what  Shelley  felt  when  he  conceived  that 

Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-coloured  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  Eternity, 

or  of  what  Shakespeare  felt  when  he  wrote  the  great 
soliloquy  of  Hamlet.  His  'foible  is  omniscience,' 
that  complete  knowledge  of  the  surface  of  life  which 
supposes  that  it  has  looked  into  '  the  very  heart  of 
the  machine '  when  it  has  enumerated  the  outward 
characteristics  of  human  life,  but  has  no  correspond- 
ing intuition  of  its  inner  movements.      We  look  in 


LORD  MACAULAY  117 


vain  in  Macaulay  for  any  of  those  sudden  flashes  of 
light  which  reveal  the  deep  heart  of  the  writer,  and 
instantaneously  send  the  thoughts  of  the  reader  soar- 
ing into  the  firmament  of  the  Infinite.  He  never 
asks  Whence  am  I? — Whither  am  I  going?  He  never 
makes  us  feel  the  solemnity  of  the  thought  that  all 
these  generations  which  he  pictures  have  trodden  the 
dusty  road  of  death,  and  lie  silent  under  the  drums 
and  tramplings  of  succeeding  ages.  He  does  not 
feel,  with  Wordsworth,  the  grandeur  of  the  suggestion 
that  the  soul 

That  rises  with  us,  our  life's  star, 
Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 
And  cometh  from  afar, 

or  with  Shakespeare  the  pathos  of  the  thought  that 
1  we  are  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of,'  and  our 
'little  'ife  is  rounded  with  a  sleep.'  He  does  not 
close  his  History  as  Raleigh  closed  his,  with  any 
magnificent  apostrophe  to  '  eloquent,  just,  and  mighty 
death.'  The  'still,  sad  music  of  humanity'  is  a  music 
he  has  never  heard.  There  is  no  eternal  dome  of 
heaven  arched  over  his  history,  there  are  no  watchful 
Presences  that  look  on  us  from  other  worlds ;  all  is 
gross,  palpable,  commonplace,  mundane.  Life  passes 
before  us  like  a  glittering  pageant,  and  we  are  con- 
scious only  of  its  buzz  and  tinsel.  He  is  content  that 
it  should  be  so  ;  he  aims  at  no  higher  effect.  It  is  in 
the  mise  en  scene  of  the  theatre  he  excels  ;  he  has  no 
eye  for  the  starry  spaces  and  deep  profound  of  Nature 
which  allure  and  impress  us  outside  the  theatre  door. 
If  he  can  make  us  clap  our  hands  before  his  scenic 
show,  it  is  enough ;  we  must  look  to  others  for 
guidance  in  the  eternal  mystery  of  things,  for  inter- 
pretation of  the  heavenly  silences. 


n8  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

We  do  not  ask  for  spirituality  in  an  historian,  and 
we  can  do  without  philosophic  depth  ;  but  the  lack 
of  this  sense  of  the  Infinite  unmistakably  dwarfs  the 
subject,  and  makes  the  noblest  effects  impossible.  It 
is  like  the  lack  of  atmosphere  in  a  painting — every- 
thing is  too  rigid  in  outline,  too  near  and  distinct,  and 
the  charm  of  distance  is  wanting.  The  grandeur  of 
Carlyle's  French  Revolution  arises  from  this  very 
quality,  his  intense  sensitiveness  to  the  nearness  of  the 
Infinite.  Everything  is  seen  against  a  background 
of  infinity.  We  are  reminded  again  and  again  of 
those  solemn  abysses  of  eternity  on  the  brink  of 
which  men  sport.  We  see  the  drama  of  human  life 
played  out  in  an  awful  environment  of  immensities 
and  eternities,  and  are  the  more  fascinated  with  its 

Shifting  fancies  and  celestial  lights, 

With  all  its  grand  orchestral  silences, 

To  keep  the  pauses  of  the  rhythmic  sounds. 

And  there  is  no  great  writer  in  modern  literature 
who  has  not  had  this  sense  of  the  Infinite.  It  gives 
solemnity  to  the  fancies  of  De  Quincey,  as  well  as  to 
the  history  of  Carlyle  ;  it  bathes  the  pages  of  Ruskin, 
and  Tennyson,  and  Browning,  not  less  than  those  of 
Newman,  with  a  celestial  splendour.  But  no  gleam 
of  that  light  which  never  was  on  sea  or  land  illumines 
the  writings  of  Macaulay.  In  the  ordinary  sense  of 
the  world  he  was  not  a  worldly  man.  He  was  not 
avaricious,  self-seeking,  or  immodestly  proud.  He 
was  simple  in  his  tastes,  and  moderate  in  his  ambi- 
tions. But  if  he  was  not  a  worldly  man  in  this 
orthodox  sense  of  the  word,  he  was  distinctly  a 
mundane  man.  He  never  felt  what  Burke  felt  when 
he  said,  '  What  shadows  we  are,  and  what  shadows  we 
pursue  ! '     He  never  looked  over  the  barriers  of  the 


LORD  MAC  AULA  Y  119 

world  into  that  eternal  sea  which  flows  round  all,  and 
he  never  heard  its  undertone  of  melancholy  music. 
What  the  deepest  hearts  have  felt,  he  never  felt  ; 
what  the  clearest  eyes  have  seen,  he  never  saw  ;  and 
the  problems  with  which  great  thinkers  have  wrestled 
all  their  lives  in  an  agony  that  yearned  without  pause 
for  the  breaking  of  the  day,  never  so  much  as  troubled 
him  with  a  suggestion  of  their  presence.  Macaulay 
had  never  met  the  wrestling  angel  and  prevailed. 
He  was  an  unconscious  but  complete  materialist  in 
all  his  thoughts  and  ideas  ;  he  was  like  Gibbon,  '  of 
the  earth  earthly.' 

A  very  mundane  man,  no  doubt ;  an  eager-minded, 
strenuous  man,  with  an  honest  delight  in  life,  and  a 
pleasure  in  its  rough  tussles  for  pre-eminence  ;  but 
for  all  this,  a  man  who,  in  his  private  conduct,  was 
capable  of  being  quietly  heroic  in  a  way  which  more 
unworldly  spirits  have  often  found  it  difficult  to 
emulate.  Perhaps  we  can  afford  to  barter  some  of  the 
higher  qualities  of  literary  sympathy  for  the  fortitude 
and  unselfishness  which  can  endure  banishment  for 
five  years,  at  a  time  when  political  prospects  are 
brightest,  for  the  sake  of  putting  himself  and  his 
family  on  a  basis  of  independence.  There  have  been 
many  literary  artists  who  were  exquisitely  discerning 
and  sympathetic  in  their  taste,  but  who  were  utterly 
cynical  and  selfish  in  their  private  relationships  ;  and 
when  we  choose  between  nobility  of  conduct  and 
finish  of  intellect,  we  know  which  ranks  the  higher. 
'At  Christmas,'  he  writes  from  India,  'I  shall  send 
home  a  thousand  or  twelve  hundred  pounds  for  my 
father  and  you  all.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  a  comfort 
it  is  to  me  to  know  that  I  shall  be  able  to  do  this.  It 
reconciles  me  to  all  the  pains — acute  enough  some- 


120  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

times,  God  knows ! — of  banishment.  In  a  few  years, 
if  I  live — probably  in  less  than  five  years  from  the 
time  at  which  you  are  reading  this  letter — we  shall 
be  again  together  in  a  comfortable,  though  modest 
home ;  certain  of  a  good  fire,  a  good  joint  of  meat, 
and  a  good  glass  of  wine  ;  without  owing  obligations 
to  anybody,  and  perfectly  indifferent,  at  least  as  far 
as  our  pecuniary  interest  is  concerned,  to  the  changes 
of  the  political  world.  Rely  on  it,  my  dear  girls, 
that  there  is  no  chance  of  my  going  back  with  my 
heart  cooled  toward  you.  I  came  hither  principally 
to  save  my  family,  and  I  am  not  likely  while  here  to 
forget  them.'  The  letter  is  of  the  earth  earthly,  no 
doubt,  but  there  is  surely  a  touch  of  noble  feeling  in 
it  also.  It  was  not  Macaulay's  way  to  wear  his  heart 
upon  his  sleeve  ;  he  was  inclined  rather  to  simulate  a 
bluntness  of  feeling  which  was  not  real,  and  to  con- 
ceal his  deepest  emotions  under  the  mask  of  worldly 
shrewdness.  But  that  those  emotions  were  there, 
and  that  a  real  sensitiveness  of  heart  was  allied  to 
his  native  shrewdness  of  mind,  no  one  can  doubt. 
The  jovial  anticipation  of  '  the  good  joint  and  the 
good  glass  of  wine '  does  not  enable  us  to  forget  the 
sore  heart  of  the  exile,  nor  are  we  likely  to  overlook 
his  silent  self-sacrifice. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  add  more.  Macaulay 
was  so  thoroughly  honest,  genuine,  and  sweet- 
natured  that  it  is  with  regret  one  has  to  say  so  much 
of  his  defects.  He  was  '  a  lump  of  good-nature.' 
It  has  been  well  said  that  we  must  beware  of  either 
praising  or  blaming  him,  for  the  praise  becomes 
blame  and  the  blame  praise  before  we  know  it. 
Thus  if  we  say  that  he  had  no  strong  passions,  we 
must  immediately  recollect  the  depth  and  tenderness 


LORD  MACAULAY  121 

of  his  affections,  and  his  noble  loyalty  to  such  duties 
as  sprang  from   the    affections.     The    very  defects 
which  close  to  him  the  doors  of  the  highest  renown 
are   the  qualities  which    ensured  him  his  immense 
and  undiminished    popularity.     He    wrote    not    for 
people  who  think,  but  for  the  mass  of  people  who 
prefer  what  is  interesting  to  what  is  profound.     He 
did  his  work  with  an  honest  delight  in  it,  and  spared 
no  labour  to  make  it  as  perfect  as  his  conception  of 
it    permitted.     He   certainly  invented  a   new  style 
and  a  new  method  of  writing  history,  and  the  charm 
of    both    is    that    they    are    infallibly    interesting. 
Perhaps  the  compliment  which  he  most  appreciated 
was  that  conveyed  in  an  address  from  some  working- 
men,  who  thanked  him  for  being  the  first  to  write  a 
history  which  the  common  people  could  understand. 
To  have  done  this  is  to  have  done  much,  but  to  have 
written  a  history  which  is  equally  the  delight  of  the 
learned  and  the  cultured  is  a  unique  achievement. 
And  he  deserved  his  success ;  no  man  ever  worked 
with  more  singleness   of  aim    and    devotedness    of 
purpose.     The  faults  of  his  work  are  the  defects  of 
the    man    himself,    they    are    inseparable    from    his 
endowments,  and  are  not  the  blemishes  which  come 
by  intention,  or  can  be  removed  by  determination. 
If  he  was  not  a  great  man,  he  was  a  man  of  great 
genius  ;  and  a  long  period  of  time  must  elapse,  and 
public  taste  and  human  nature  become  much  changed, 
before  his  work  can  pass  into  desuetude,  or  his  name 
be  forgotten. 


CHAPTER   IX 

WALTER   SAVAGE   LANDOR 

[Born  at  Warwick,  January  30,  1775.  Educated  at  Rugby  and  Oxford. 
Published  his  poem,  Gebir,  1798.  Went  to  Spain  as  volunteer  in 
the  Spanish  cause  against  Napoleon,  1808.  Married  Miss  Thuillier, 
181 1.  Wrote  his  poem,  Coinit  Julian,  in  same  year.  Published 
first  instalment  of  Imaginary  Conversations,  1831.  Examination 
of  Shakespeare,  1854.  Pentameron,  1837.  Collection  of  Latin 
Poems,  1847.     Died  in  Florence,  September  17,  1864.] 

'  I  CLAIM  no  place  in  the  world  of  letters  ;  I  am 
alone,  and  will  be  alone  as  long  as  I  live,  and  after,' 
wrote  Landor  in  one  of  his  late  confessions.  Equally- 
characteristic  is  his  proud  saying,  'I  shall  dine  late; 
but  the  dining-room  will  be  well  lighted,  the  guests 
few  and  select.'  In  each  instance  the  prophecy  is 
likely  to  be  fulfilled.  Landor  still  speaks  to  the 
few,  but  they  are  the  best  judges  of  literature  :  he 
still  stands  alone,  but  it  is  because  there  is  no  one 
capable  of  disputing  his  peculiar  pre-eminence  with 
him. 

In  mere  weight  and  mass  of  genius  Landor  stood 
high  among  his  contemporaries,  and  in  the  final  form 
which  he  adopted  for  his  expression,  he  has  neither 
prototype  nor  imitator.  Carlyle  rightly  described 
him  as  an  'unsubduable  old  Roman';    Swinburne, 

with  more  delicate  felicity  of  epithet,  distinguishes 
122 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR  123 

the  Greek  grace  of  manner  which  he  joined  with 
Roman  virility  of  thought: 

And  through  the  trumpet  of  a  child  of  Rome 
Rang  the  pure  music  of  the  flutes  of  Greece. 

Classic  grandeur  and  breadth,  classic  purity  and 
severity  of  form,  distinguish  all  his  best  writing. 
There  is  a  classic  dignity  about  his  life  also,  marred, 
however,  by  fierce  intractability  of  temper,  sudden 
and  disastrous  explosions  of  feeling,  and  entire  want 
of  judgment  in  all  the  practical  affairs  of  life.  No 
man  was  readier  in  uttering  hasty  judgments,  or 
more  reluctant  to  modify  them  when  the  facts  were 
obviously  against  him.  He  has  in  turn  described  the 
French,  the  Welsh,  and  the  Italians  as  the  most 
corrupt  and  worthless  of  mankind.  Where  he  hated 
he  found  no  epithet  too  odious  for  the  object  of  his 
hatred,  where  he  loved  no  praise  too  extreme.  The 
story  of  his  life  is  a  long  history  of  collisions  with 
authority,  with  neighbours,  with  friends,  with  circum- 
stances, often  as  intensely  amusing  to  the  onlooker 
as  they  were  painful  to  himself.  There  is  much 
in  his  life  which  is  ludicrous  and  astonishing  ;  per- 
haps it  is  little  wonder  that  the  mass  of  men,  ever 
more  ready  to  gloat  over  a  frailty  than  to  detect 
a  virtue,  should  have  remembered  his  faults  and 
forgotten  his  greatness. 

Precipitancy  of  judgment  and  heat  of  temper  are 
responsible  for  all  the  errors  of  Landor's  life.  To 
recount  these  errors  is  neither  wise,  necessary,  nor 
generous.  One  thing,  however,  is  noticeable,  that  in 
every  case  the  difficulties  which  he  created  in  himself 
arose  from  a  sort  of  undisciplined  magnanimity  of 
nature,  a  belief  in  impracticable  ideals,  a  radical 
inability  to  adapt  himself  to  the  common  convictions 


124  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

of  life.  He  sinned  against  himself  in  a  hundred 
instances,  but  against  others  never.  His  generosity 
was  extreme  and  incessant.  In  his  enormous  agri- 
cultural experiments  at  Llanthony  he  squandered 
seventy  thousand  pounds  in  five  years.  In  later  life 
he  denuded  himself  of  almost  all  that  he  possessed  in 
favour  of  a  wife  who  had  embittered  his  existence, 
and  whom  he  had  twice  left.  Frugality  was  a  virtue 
of  which  he  had  never  heard,  common-sense  a  word 
of  which  he  did  not  know  the  meaning.  If  he  has 
never  yet  quite  come  by  his  own  in  literary  fame,  it 
is  because  the  same  wilfulness  and  impracticability 
characterised  his  genius.  The  last  thought  that 
would  ever  occur  to  him  was  what  the  public  was 
likely  to  read  ;  or,  if  such  a  suggestion  had  been  made 
to  him,  it  is  quite  certain  that  he  would  have  instantly 
chosen  a  form  of  writing  diametrically  opposed 
to  public  taste.  He  planned  his  literary  life  much 
as  he  planned  his  gigantic  agricultural  schemes  at 
Llanthony,  without  the  least  reference  to  the  practical 
conditions  of  success.  His  only  vice  was  an  indomi- 
table pride.  His  crown  of  virtue  was  magnanimity. 
In  both  these  qualities  he  was  made  more  pagan 
than  modern,  and  deserved  his  title  of  Roman.  We 
may  pity,  love,  admire,  judge  him — each  is  possible, 
and  does  not  exclude  the  other — but  no  one  can  get 
at  close  quarters  with  him  without  perceiving  that 
Landor's  nature  was  wrought  out  of  the  rarest  and 
purest  material,  and  that  numerous  as  the  flaws  are, 
none  of  them  go  very  deep,  or  seriously  impair  the 
general  impressiveness  of  the  whole. 

Landor's  literary  career  began  with  poetry,  and  to 
the  close  of  his  long  life  he  wrote  poetry,  often  of 
the  very  highest  order.     It  has  always  seemed  to  me 


WAL  TER  SA  VA  GE  LAN  DOR  1 25 

that  the  poetry  of  Landor  has  been  quite  unjustly 
neglected,  and  even  the  best  critics  have  paid  far  too 
little  attention  to  it.  Of  course  he  was  not  a  great 
poet  in  the  sense  in  which  Wordsworth  or  Shelley  is 
great,  and  the  reasons  of  his  inferiority  are  obvious. 
Both  Wordsworth  and  Shelley  had  a  message  to 
deliver ;  Landor  had  none.  It  was  not  that  he  did 
not  feel  earnestly  and  even  violently  on  a  variety  of 
subjects,  but  a  certain  underlying  contempt  of  his 
fellow-men  robbed  him  of  that  sympathy  which 
made  anything  like  a  coherent  and  vital  message 
possible.  Again,  he  had  little  power  of  impregnating 
his  poetry  with  that  intimate  personal  passion  which 
gives  poignancy  or  sweetness  to  the  work  of  his  great 
contemporaries.  He  was  too  reticent,  too  proud,  too 
self-contained  to  unveil  his  heart  with  the  freedom  of 
a  Byron  or  a  Shelley.  Byron  and  Shelley  intrusted 
their  closest  secrets  to  mankind,  and  their  poetry 
is  a  long  series  of  personal  confessions.  Nothing 
happened  to  them,  no  movement  of  heart  or  mind, 
that  has  not  something  corresponding  to  it  in  their 
verse,  and  consequently  they  never  fail  to  excite  our 
sympathies,  and  compel  our  interest.  Even  of 
Wordsworth,  a  man  of  much  colder  temperament, 
this  is  true :  in  all  his  more  vital  poetry  we  share  the 
secrets  of  his  personality.  Landor  permits  no  such 
intrusion.  He  is  shy  as  a  girl  over  the  ardours  of 
his  own  heart.  He  addresses  us  from  a  standpoint 
at  once  remote  and  detached,  and  only  in  rare 
moments  descends  from  his  pinnacle  and  stands 
among  us.  And,  as  compared  with  the  greatest 
poets — and  it  is  with  these  only  he  deserves  to  be 
compared — he  fails  in  execution.  He  lacks  the 
unfaltering  felicity  of  the  perfectly  developed  artistic 


126  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

sense.  A  line  or  a  passage  full  of  gravity  and  music 
is  often  succeeded  by  halting  and  inefficient  work- 
manship, as  though  his  inspiration  had  suddenly 
failed  him,  or  he  had  tired  in  his  flight.  Few  poets 
have  ever  soared  higher,  but,  strong  as  his  wing  is,  it 
soon  droops.  It  is  not  that  he  is  incapable  of  doing 
better,  but  he  is  too  careless  to  attempt  it,  at  least 
continuously ;  and  so  it  may  be  said  that  never  was 
great  poetry  with  greater  faults. 

But,  at  its  best,  Landor's  poetry  is  great  poetry, 
and  he  who  has  not  justly  estimated  the  poetry  of 
Landor  is  incapable  of  forming  a  true  estimate  of 
his  genius.  He  possesses  wonderful  lucidity,  sim- 
plicity, and  charm,  together  with  great  gravity  and 
depth  of  feeling,  and  a  peculiar  power  of  intense 
imagination.  Nothing  more  perfect  of  its  kind  was 
ever  written  than  the  eight  lines  on  Rose  Aylmer — 
lines  which  Lamb  was  never  tired  of  reciting : 

Ah  what  avails  the  sceptred  race, 

Ah  what  the  form  divine  ! 
What  every  virtue,  every  grace  ! 

Rose  Aylmer,  all  were  thine. 
Rose  Aylmer,  whom  these  wakeful  eyes 

May  weep,  but  never  see, 
A  night  of  memories  and  sighs 

I  consecrate  to  thee. 

Such  a  poem  recalls  the  sweetness  and  simplicity  of 
Wordsworth's  lines  to  Lucy  Gray,  but  it  possesses  also 
a  certain  classic  austerity  which  even  Wordsworth 
rarely  attained.  In  another  kind  of  poetry,  aiming 
at  larger  and  epic  effect,  there  is  little  that  surpasses 
the  closing  passages  of  the  poem  called  Regeneration. 
Landor  was  always  a  close  student  of  Milton,  whom 
he  honoured   as  the    greatest  of  men,  and  in  this 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LAND  OR  127 

poem  he  comes  very  near  Milton  in  the  solemn  march 
of  his  blank  verse.     Such  lines  as  these  : 

Let  all  that  Elis  ever  saw,  give  way, 
All  that  Olympian  Jove  e'er  smiled  upon  : 
The  Marathonian  columns  never  told 
A  tale  more  glorious,  never  Salamis, 
Nor,  faithful  in  the  centre  of  the  false, 
Platea,  nor  Anthela,  from  whose  mount 
Benignant  Ceres  wards  the  blessed  Laws, 
And  sees  the  Amphictyon  dip  his  weary  foot 
In  the  warm  streamlet  of  the  strait  below, — 

recall  not  only  the  pomp  of  Milton's  lines,  but  also 
his  classicism.  But  much  as  Landor  admired  Milton, 
he  was  no  copyist.  He  has  a  grave,  sweet  concord 
of  his  own,  composed  of  the  simplest  chords.  No 
passage  of  his  poetry  is  better  known,  and  none  is 
more  perfect,  than  his  famous  description  of  the  sea- 
shell  in  Gebir: 

But  I  have  sinuous  shells  of  pearly  hue 
Within,  and  they  that  lustre  have  imbibed 
In  the  sun's  palace-porch,  where,  when  unyoked 
His  chariot-wheel  stands  midway  in  the  wave  : 
Shake  one,  and  it  awakens  ;  then  apply 
Its  polisht  lips  to  your  attentive  ear, 
And  it  remembers  its  august  abodes, 
And  murmurs  as  the  ocean  murmurs  there. 

Byron  took  the  same  image,  and  spoiled  it ;  Words- 
worth certainly  did  not  improve  it  when  he  turned  it 
to  moral  uses  in  the  Excursion.  These  are,  of  course, 
but  random  samples  of  Landor's  poetry,  taken  from 
an  opulent  and  various  storehouse.  No  single  poem 
can  rightly  illustrate  his  power  ;  yet,  if  one  needs 
must  be  chosen  which  displays  his  rarest  qualities  in 
their  most  perfect  combination,  there  is  none  so 
distinctive    as    the    following    brief   idyll    from    his 


128  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

Hellenics.  Notice  how  grave  and  simple  is  the 
movement  of  the  verse,  how  the  full  tragedy  is 
exquisitely  indicated  rather  than  described  (a  con- 
stant habit  with  Landor  in  all  his  dramatic  writing), 
the  abruptness  of  the  close,  with  the  brief  phrase, 
"twas  not  hers,'  which  tells  everything,  and  leaves 
an  ineffaceable  impression  of  a  mourning  too  profound 
for  words.     It  is  the  husband  who  speaks  : 

'Artemidora!  Gods  invisible, 
While  thou  art  lying  faint  along  the  couch, 
Have  tied  the  sandal  to  thy  slender  feet 
And  stand  beside  thee,  ready  to  convey 
Thy  weary  steps  where  other  rivers  flow. 
Refreshing  shades  will  waft  thy  weariness 
Away,  and  voices  like  thine  own  come  nigh, 
Soliciting,  nor  vainly,  thy  embrace.' 

Artemidora  sigh'd,  and  would  have  prest 
The  hand  now  pressing  hers,  but  was  too  weak. 
Iris  stood  over  her  dark  hair  unseen 
While  thus  Elpenor  spake.     He  lookt  into 
Eyes  that  had  given  light  and  life  erewhile 
To  those  above  them,  those  now  dim  with  tears 
And  watchfulness.    Again  he  spake  of  joy 
Eternal.     At  that  word,  that  sad  word,  joy, 
Faithful  and  fond  her  bosom  heaved  once  more  : 
Her  head  fell  back  :  and  now  a  loud  deep  sob 
SwelPd    through   the  darken'd   chamber ;  'twas 

not  hers. 

What  can  be  more  perfect  than  this  ?  What  more 
tender?  Infelicitous  as  Landor's  own  domestic 
life  was,  yet  no  one  has  spoken  of  love  with  such 
condensed  passion,  no  one  has  described  its  inmost 
workings  with  a  touch  so  sure  and  subtle.  To  him 
we  owe  many  an  apophthegm  on  love — such,  for 
instance,  as  this :  '  The  happiest  of  pillows  is  not 
that  which  Love  first  presses,  it  is  that  which  Death 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR  129 

has  frowned  on  and  passed  over.'  Landor's  tender- 
ness is  the  rare  tenderness  of  the  strong  man,  than 
which  none  is  more  moving,  and  in  this  poem  we 
have  its  most  exquisite  expression.  Such  a  lucid 
gem  of  poetry  ought  to  be  sufficient  to  convince 
even  the  most  sceptical  that  in  point  of  quality 
Landor's  best  poetry  is  worthy  to  be  ranked  with 
the  greatest  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

It  was  not  until  Landor  had  come  to  the  confines 
of  mid-life  that  he  finally  adopted  the  form  of  literary 
expression  best  suited  to  his  genius.  At  forty-six 
much  of  his  life  had  been  futile  and  disappointing. 
Admirable  as  his  poetry  was,  yet  it  was  obvious 
that  it  would  never  be  popular.  Great  as  were  his 
personal  gifts  and  qualities,  it  was  equally  obvious 
that  they  were  counterbalanced  by  serious  and 
irritating  defects.  He  had  behaved  alternately  as 
a  schoolboy  and  a  sage.  His  love  of  combat  had 
carried  him  into  indiscretions  which  had  seriously 
alienated  those  who  were  most  ready  to  honour 
him.  He  had  revenged  fancied  slights  by  ferocious 
lampoons.  He  had  run  through  his  fortune,  was 
embarrassed  in  circumstances,  and  was  an  exile  in 
Pisa.  Olympian  methods  of  conduct  suit  ill  with 
sedate  English  conventions,  as  he  had  discovered  to 
his  cost.  Through  all  this  turmoil — lampoons  on 
fools,  law-suits  with  neighbours,  collisions  with 
authorities,  volunteer  soldiery  in  Spain,  and  what 
not — the  main  element  of  Landor's  life,  however,  had 
suffered  no  change :  he  had  never  ceased  to  be  a 
scholar.  The  range  of  his  reading,  always  extra- 
ordinary, had  widened  with  the  steady  growth 
of  his  mind.  There  was  scarcely  a  great  writer 
of    antiquity    with    whom     he   was    not    intimately 

I 


130  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

acquainted,  nor  a  great  historical  personage  of  any- 
period,  the  motives  of  whose  conduct  and  the  nature 
of  whose  action  he  had  not  thoroughly  sifted.  His- 
tory was  for  him  the  story  of  great  men  at  work. 
His  temperament  was  the  temperament  of  the  hero- 
worshipper.  He  tells  us  that  the  great  figures  of 
the  past  affected  his  sympathies,  as  though  he  had 
known  them  intimately.  They  were  the  friends  of 
his  solitude,  and  almost  the  only  friends  he  had. 
In  his  long  country  walks,  and  in  his  nights  of 
study,  he  fell  into  the  way  of  holding  conversations 
with  them  as  if  they  were  real;  he  found  a  keen  joy 
in  dramatising  some  well-known  act  of  their  lives, 
some  tragic  or  happy  crisis  in  their  careers.  His 
published  dramas,  abounding  as  they  did  in  fine 
passages,  nevertheless  lacked  that  true  creative 
touch  which  gives  to  figures  of  the  imagination  a 
local  habitation  and  a  name.  But  in  past  history 
there  were  crowds  of  figures  ready  to  his  hand : 
why  not  dramatise  these  ?  Twenty  years  earlier  he 
had  sketched  a  dialogue  between  Burke  and  Gren- 
ville,  and  his  mind  now  returned  to  this  novel  form 
of  composition.  He  left  Pisa  in  1821,  moving  to 
Florence,  where  for  the  next  five  years  he  resided 
in  the  Medici  Palace,  and  later  on  at  the  Villa 
Castiglione.  No  sooner  had  he  settled  in  Florence 
than  this  idea  of  dramatic  dialogues  with  the  great 
personages  of  the  past  took  entire  possession  of  his 
mind,  and  the  result  was  the  Imaginary  Conversations, 
which  are  the  finest  fruit  of  his  genius,  and  his 
enduring  monument. 

It  would  be  quite  vain  to  introduce  these  great 
pieces  of  literature  to  those  who  have  neither  the 
aptitudes   nor  the   instincts   of  culture.     They   are 


WAL  TER  SA  VA  GE  LANDOR  131 

above  all  things  the  work  of  a  scholar,  and  Landor 
neither  expected  nor  desired  that  they  should  appeal 
to  the  great  mass  of  readers.  This  is,  of  course,  a 
serious  disqualification.  Men  of  a  genius  as  great 
as,  or  greater  than  Landor's,  have  contrived  to  write 
in  such  a  way  as  to  interest  all  classes  of  readers. 
That  peculiar  breadth  of  touch  which  distinguishes 
the  greatest  masters  of  literature  was  not  Landor's 
at  any  time,  and  he  was  much  too  proud  and  self- 
contained  to  consider  for  an  instant  what  would  be 
likely  to  prove  popular  with  the  public.  He  wrote 
to  please  himself,  and  this  is  the  source  of  both  his 
strength  and  his  weakness.  Shakespeare  himself 
had  no  more  vivid  insight  into  the  play  of  human 
motive  and  the  complicated  issues  of  human  passion, 
but  Shakespeare  was  forced  by  the  traditions  of  the 
stage  to  express  himself  in  popular  forms.  If  we 
can  conceive  of  Shakespeare  as  a  solitary  scholar, 
free  from  all  exigency  of  popular  appeal  as  a  means 
of  earning  money,  writing  in  his  closet  simply  to 
please  himself,  we  may  conceive  him  writing  dramatic 
dialogues  after  Landor's  fashion.  Nor  is  it  in  the 
least  exaggerated  praise  to  say  that  it  is  hard  to 
think  of  any  one  else  who  could  have  rivalled  the 
best  of  these  Imaginary  Conversations.  But  fortun- 
ately for  us  Shakespeare  was  forced  to  please  others 
as  well  as  himself.  He  selected  such  stories  as  those 
of  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  Caesar  and  Brutus,  Othello 
and  Desdemona,  as  much  from  a  sense  of  their 
popular  significance  as  of  their  philosophic  import- 
ance. Landor  selects  his  themes  without  the  least 
regard  to  popular  significance.  Hence  one  cannot 
but  feel  that  he  is  at  a  disadvantage.  The  writer, 
not  less  than  the  actor,  is  one  who  lives  to  please,  and 


132  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

must  please  to  live.  And  yet  it  must  be  remembered 
that  it  needs  but  a  very  little  accommodation  on 
our  part  to  Landor's  point  of  view  to  find  in  these 
matchless  dialogues  one  of  the  richest  inheritances 
of  the  human  mind.  The  more  cultured  a  man  is, 
the  more  will  he  appreciate  them  ;  but,  after  all, 
it  is  only  the  absolutely  uncultured  who  will  take 
no  interest  in  them.  Granted  that  we  know  who 
his  personages  are,  that  we  have  some  elementary 
knowledge  of  the  part  they  played  in  life,  and  we 
at  once  catch  the  spirit  of  the  dialogue.  The  case 
is  almost  parallel  with  that  of  Carlyle's  French 
Revolution :  some  preliminary  knowledge  is  de- 
manded of  us  simply  because  much  is  taken  for 
granted.  In  each  instance  it  needs  some  effort  to 
master  the  method  of  the  writer,  but  when  once  the 
effort  is  made,  the  reward  is  out  of  all  proportion  to 
the  exertion. 

The  quality  which  strikes  one  most  in  these 
Imaginary  Conversations  is  the  enormous  variety  of 
Landor's  power.  They  range  through  the  whole 
realm  of  human  history,  and  there  is  no  part  of  that 
history  which  he  has  not  thoroughly  comprehended. 
Everywhere  there  is  adequate  knowledge  and  often 
profound  scholarship ;  everywhere  there  is  also 
strenuous  thinking,  and  a  marvellous  energy  of 
conception  and  expression.  It  must  not  be  sup- 
posed, however,  that  Landor  ever  aimed  at  exact 
history.  He  once  said  that  he  usually  had  one 
history  which  he  read,  and  another  which  he  in- 
vented. His  method  is  essentially  dramatic.  He 
was  not  concerned  with  the  actual  things  which  his 
personages  are  reported  to  have  said,  but  with  the 
things  which  they  might  be  imagined  as  saying.     In 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LAN  DOR  133 

all  the  more  than  two  hundred  dialogues  of  Landor, 
it  is  difficult  to  recall  an  instance  in  which  he  puts 
into  the  mouth  of  the  speaker  anything  which 
history  reports  him  as  saying.  He  even  took  care 
never  to  consult  history  when  he  had  once  begun 
to  write  upon  some  historic  personage.  His  immense 
reading  and  exact  scholarship  enabled  him  to  dis- 
pense with  such  aids  to  knowledge.  Before  he 
wrote,  he  had  arrived  at  a  fundamental  conception  of 
the  character  of  his  protagonist ;  he  then  let  him 
think  and  speak  in  the  way  in  which  he  might  be 
supposed  to  have  thought  and  spoken  in  the  actual 
crisis  depicted.  An  excellent  example  of  this 
method  is  the  conversation  between  Essex  and 
Spenser.  There  is  no  record  of  any  interview 
between  Essex  and  Spenser,  when  the  latter  fled 
from  Ireland  after  the  burning  of  his  house  and  the 
destruction  of  his  property  ;  but  it  is  likely  enough, 
and  indeed  certain,  that  some  such  interview  did 
occur.  Landor  brings  the  two  men  face  to  face  in 
a  scene  that  Shakespeare  would  not  have  disowned. 
By  a  variety  of  exquisite  dramatic  touches  the 
scene  grows  in  poignancy,  until  at  last  Spenser 
breaks  forth  in  uncontrollable  agony,  and  horrifies 
Essex  with  the  news  that  not  only  his  house,  but 
his  child  is  burned.  The  impression  made  upon 
the  mind  is  one  of  absolute  truth,  which  is  the 
highest  excellence  of  dramatic  art.  Csesar  did  not 
make  the  speeches  which  Shakespeare  puts  into 
his  lips,  but  he  might  have  made  them.  They  are 
justified  by  his  character,  and  that  is  the  main 
thing.  So  with  Landor:  Pericles,  Sophocles,  Cicero, 
Cecil,  Elizabeth,  Milton,  Marvel — all  hold  his  brief 
stage    in    turn,    but    each    is    distinctly  individual, 


134  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

each  speaks  in  his  own  accent,  each  says  the  things 
which  from  our  knowledge  of  history  he  may  be 
supposed  as  saying,  if  ever  Pericles  discussed  art 
with  Sophocles  under  the  shadow  of  the  Acropolis, 
or  Milton  discussed  tragedy  with  Marvel  in  the 
scant  seclusion  of  Bunhill  Fields. 

The  Imaginary  Conversations  do  not,  however,  all 
range  themselves  under  the  plain  category  of  the 
dramatic.  Some  are  philosophic,  some  are  critical, 
though  even  in  these  the  dramatic  instinct  is  always 
present.  One  of  the  most  terrible  of  all  the  dramatic 
pieces  is  Landor's  dialogue  between  Peter  the  Great 
and  his  son  Alexis.  In  reading  this  dialogue  one  can 
well  believe  that  Landor  often  wrote  in  a  passion  of 
tears  and  frenzy.  The  timid,  gentle,  kindly  son,  con- 
demned to  death  by  his  own  father,  and  saying — 
1  My  father  truly  says  I  am  not  courageous  ;  but  the 
death  that  leads  me  to  my  God  shall  never  terrify 
me,'  touches  a  rare  height  of  nobility ;  the  brutality 
of  Peter,  shaking  off  the  entire  remembrance  of  the 
scene  the  moment  it  is  over,  and  calling  loudly  for 
brandy,  bacon,  and  some  pickled  sturgeon,  and  some 
krout  and  caviare,  and  good  strong  cheese,  is 
rendered  with  a  savage  intensity  almost  peculiar 
to  the  lesser  Elizabethan  dramatists,  a  Marlowe,  a 
Webster,  or  a  Ford.  One  can  only  marvel,  in  the 
presence  of  work  so  great  as  this,  what  the  readers 
of  England  have  been  about  for  the  last  fifty  years 
that  they  have  paid  so  little  attention  to  it.  But  in 
another  mood,  the  purely  critical,  Landor  is  almost 
as  impressive.  Here,  of  course,  personal  likes  and 
dislikes  come  into  play,  and  Landor  was  not  the 
man  to  conceal  them  ;  but  his  criticism  is  never  less 
than  acute  and  luminous.     Nothing  finer  in  this  way 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR  135 

is  to  be  found  than  the  conversation  between 
Petrarca  and  Boccaccio  on  Dante's  Paolo  and 
Francesca.  The  whole  story  of  the  unhappy  lovers 
is  told  in  six  lines,  but,  says  Landor,  '  What  a  sweet 
aspiration  in  each  caesura  of  the  verse !  three  love- 
sighs  fixed  and  incorporate.  Then  when  she  hath 
said, 

"  La  bocca  lui  bacib  tutto  tremante? 

she  stops :  she  would  avert  the  eyes  of  Dante  from 
her ;  he  looks  for  the  sequel :  she  thinks  he  looks 
severely ;  she  says, 

"  Galeotto  is  the  name  of  the  book," 

fancying  by  this  timorous  little  flight  she  has  drawn 
him  far  enough  from  the  nest  of  her  young  loves. 

"  Galeotto  is  the  name  of  the  book." 
"  What  matters  that  ?  " 
"And  of  the  writer?" 
"  Or  that  either." 

At  last  she  disarms  him  :  but  how  ? 

"  That  day  we  read  no  more." 

'  Such  a  depth  of  intuitive  judgment,  such  a  deli- 
cacy of  perception,  exists  not  in  any  other  work  of 
human  genius :  and  from  an  author  who,  on  almost 
all  occasions,  in  this  part  of  his  work,  betrays  a 
deplorable  want  of  it.' 

Landor's  opinion  of  Dante  was  not  high,  and  he 
even  went  so  far  as  to  say  that  the  Inferno  was  the 
most  immoral  and  impious  book  that  was  ever 
written  ;  but  the  most  admiring  critic  of  Dante  may 
rest  satisfied  with  such  a  piece  of  criticism  as  this. 


136  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

Strong  and  even  violent  as  Landor  often  was  in 
antipathy  and  opinion,  he  never  failed  to  see  the 
excellency  of  really  fine  work.  A  fine  strenuous 
sincerity  breathes  throughout  his  work  of  this  kind, 
which  is  full  of  invigoration  ;  and  in  this  particular 
criticism  we  may  justly  ascribe  to  him  the  merits 
he  ascribed  to  Dante,  great  'depth  of  intuitive 
judgment'  and  'delicacy  of  perception.' 

Another  kind  of  writing  in  which  Landor  excelled 
may  be  best  described  as  '  fantasy.'  Perhaps  the 
noblest  specimens  of  this  work  are  the  Dream  of 
Boccaccio  and  the  Dream  of  Petrarca.  Each  is  dis- 
tinguished by  peculiar  delicacy  of  sentiment,  beauty 
of  cadence,  and  grace  of  imagination.  They  illustrate 
also  in  a  very  striking  manner  the  thorough  paganism 
of  Landor's  mind.  His  theme  is  love  and  death  ;  it  is 
treated  after  the  fashion  of  the  greatest  of  antique 
poets  ;  and  here,  if  anywhere,  we  most  distinctly  hear 
the  music  of  '  the  flutes  of  Greece.'  Surely  Death 
was  never  described  with  more  solemn  pregnancy  of 
phrase,  with  more  beauty  and  serenity  too,  than  in 
this  passage :  '  I  cannot  tell  how  I  knew  him,  but 
I  knew  him  to  be  the  genius  of  Death.  Breathless 
as  I  was  at  beholding  him,  I  soon  became  familiar 
with  his  features.  First  they  seemed  only  calm  ; 
presently  they  became  contemplative,  and  lastly, 
beautiful ;  those  of  the  Graces  themselves  are  less 
regular,  less  harmonious,  less  composed.  Love 
glanced  at  him  unsteadily,  with  a  countenance  in 
which  there  was  somewhat  of  anxiety,  somewhat  of 
disdain,  and  cried,  "  Go  away  !  Go  away  !  Nothing 
that  thou  touchest  lives." 

'"Say  rather,  child,"  replied  the  advancing  form, 
and  advancing  grew  loftier  and  statelier,  "  say  rather 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LAN  DOR  1 37 


that  nothing  of  beautiful  or  glorious  lives  its  own 
true  life  until  my  wing  has  passed  over  it."  '  In  the 
Dream  of  Boccaccio  the  allegory  is  of  equal  loveli- 
ness, and  the  imagery  is  equally  grave  and  solemn, 
but  there  is  a  warmer  glow.  When  was  the  charm 
and  spirit  of  Italian  scenery  so  admirably  rendered 
and  imparted  as  in  this  brief  passage  : 

'  I  dreamt ;  and  suddenly  sprang  forth  before  me 
many  groves  and  palaces  and  gardens,  and  their 
statues  and  their  avenues,  and  their  labyrinths  of 
alaternus  and  bay,  and  alcoves  of  citron,  and 
watchful  loopholes  in  the  retirements  of  impenetrable 
pomegranates.  Farther  off,  just  below  where  the 
fountain  slipt  away  from  its  marble  hall  and  guardian 
gods,  arose,  from  their  beds  of  moss  and  drosera  and 
darkest  grass,  the  sisterhood  of  oleanders,  fond  of 
tantalising  with  their  bosomed  flowers  and  their 
moist  and  pouting  blossoms  the  little  shy  rivulet, 
and  of  covering  its  face  with  all  the  colours  of  the 
dawn.  My  dream  expanded  and  moved  forward. 
I  trod  again  the  dust  of  Posilippo,  soft  as  the 
feathers  in  the  wings  of  Sleep.' 

But  quotation  does  little  to  help  us  in  understand- 
ing the  beauty  of  such  works  as  this.  One  striking 
peculiarity  of  Landor's  style  at  all  times  is  that  it 
seldom  yields  the  full  secret  of  its  charm  at  a  first 
reading.  There  is  perfect  ease  and  lucidity  in  all  his 
prose,  but  also  a  sense  of  impenetrable  depth.  And 
nowhere  are  these  characteristics  so  fully  felt  as  in 
those  passages  of  his  writings  where  he  indulges  in 
allegory — the  finest  passages  in  all  his  writings,  and 
unequalled  by  anything  else  of  the  same  kind  in  the 
whole  realm  of  English  literature. 

'  He  who  is  within  two  paces  of  the  ninetieth  year 


138  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

may  sit  down  and  make  no  excuses,'  wrote  Landor. 
'  He  must  be  unpopular,  he  never  tried  to  be  much 
otherwise  ;  he  never  contended  with  a  contemporary, 
but  walked  alone  on  the  far  eastern  uplands,  meditat- 
ing and  remembering.'  In  this  confession,  almost  the 
last  of  many  such,  Landor  does  much  to  anticipate 
the  judgment  of  posterity.  He  was  by  nature 
solitary,  and  spent  his  life  in  meditating  and  remem- 
bering. He  was  by  nature  impatient  of  the  modern 
world,  and  took  refuge  in  an  older  world.  For  these 
reasons,  as  he  well  knew,  he  could  never  be  popular. 
But  on  a  certain  class  of  mind  Landor  will  always 
exercise  an  undeniable  fascination,  and  even  those 
least  amenable  to  his  charm  can  scarcely  regard  his 
Imaginary  Conversations  with  anything  but  rever- 
ence, as  one  of  the  most  wonderful  achievements  of 
the  human  intellect.  The  dialogue  is  in  itself  a 
somewhat  repellent  and  cumbrous  literary  form, 
and  occasionally  even  Landor  succumbs  beneath 
its  heaviness,  and  drifts  away  into  tedious  disquisi- 
tion. But  for  the  most  part  he  puts  so  much  move- 
ment, so  much  intensity  and  fire  into  his  dialogues, 
that  they  are  quite  as  easily  read  as  the  dramas  of 
Shakespeare.  And  in  the  best  of  them  what  modera- 
tion and  composure  breathe,  what  clear  serenity  of 
intellectual  view,  what  a  spirit  of  force  and  beauty : 
what  a  closely-packed  wisdom  is  there,  and  what 
dauntless  energy  of  thought.  A  great  thinker,  in  the 
sense  of  a  systematic  thinker,  Landor  was  not,  but 
few  writers  have  ever  uttered  so  many  noble  thoughts 
upon  so  many  themes.  And  they  are  often  clothed  in 
a  sort  of  splendour,  which  is  so  peculiarly  his  own, 
that  it  can  only  be  called  Landorian.  Pregnant 
epigram,   massive  strength,  vivid  imagination  char- 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR  139 

acterise  all  his  best  work.  His  sentences,  often 
abrupt,  are  always  clear  and  decisive  ;  and  when  he 
chooses,  they  rise  by  easy  stages  into  pomp  and 
stateliness,  into  exquisite  and  haunting  cadences, 
into  a  full  harmonious  roll,  as  of  a  great  organ. 
If  he  spoke  of  his  work  with  a  superb  self-confidence, 
he  was  justified  in  doing  so.  He  presents  almost  a 
solitary  instance  of  a  man's  own  judgment  of  his 
work  being  more  accurate  and  just  than  the  judg- 
ment of  his  wisest  contemporaries.  Some  day,  per- 
haps, unless  the  sense  of  what  is  truly  great  in 
literature  wholly  declines  among  his  countrymen, 
Landor's  claim  to  fame  will  be  fully  met ;  even 
now,  those  who  know  most  about  the  matter  will 
cheerfully  indorse  his  proud  challenge:  'What  I 
write  is  not  written  on  slate,  and  no  finger,  not  of 
Time  himself,  who  dips  it  in  the  clouds  of  years,  can 
efface  it.' 


CHAPTER  X 

THOMAS  DE   QUINCEY 

[Born  in  Manchester,  August  15,  1785.  Confessions  of  an  Opium- 
eater  appeared  in  the  London  Magazine,  1821.  Settled  in  Edin- 
burgh, 1828.  Contributed  to  Blackwood's,  The  Quarterly  Review, 
Tait's  Magazine,  Hogg's  Instructor.  Published  The  Logic  of 
Political  Economy,  1844.  Died  in  Edinburgh,  December  8, 
1859.  Collected  edition  of  his  writings,  edited  by  David  Masson, 
in  14  vols.     Published  by  A.  &  C.  Black,  1893.] 

The  fame  of  De  Quincey  rests  upon  one  hundred 
and  fifty  magazine  articles.  Late  in  life  he  meditated 
a  new  History  of  England,  in  twelve  volumes,  but  this, 
like  many  other  projects  of  his,  came  to  nothing.  It 
was  not  that  he  was  incapable  of  industry,  for  a  more 
prolific  writer  never  lived,  but  that  his  mind  lacked 
the  consecutive  purpose  and  aim  which  is  necessary 
for  literary  tasks  of  magnitude.  The  circumstances 
of  his  life  were  also  against  him.  Almost  all  that  he 
wrote  was  produced  under  dire  pressure,  and  it  can 
scarcely  be  expected  that  his  work  should  be  free 
from  the  haste  and  over-emphasis  which  are  the 
common  vices  of  the  magazine  article.  In  ordinary 
circumstances  such  work  would  be  ephemeral ;  in 
De  Quincey's  case  the  faults  of  his  writing  are  for- 
gotten in  the  contemplation  of  a  style  so  eloquent, 
an  invention  so  rich,  an  imagination  so  intense,  that 
none  can  doubt  his  right  to  be  called  one  of  the 

140 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCE Y  141 

greatest  masters  of  English  which  the  century  has 
produced. 

It  is  with  a  curious  mixture  of  pity,  wonder,  and 
affection  that  the  reader  will  regard  De  Quincey  as 
he  is  revealed  in  his  writings  and  the  story  of  his  life. 
Never  was  man  so  incurably  wayward,  or  so  entirely 
helpless  in  the  worldly  management  of  his  affairs. 
A  plain  record  of  his  habits  would  appear  too 
whimsical  and  fantastic  for  the  broadest  farce.  For 
no  reason  whatever  he  slunk  furtively  from  lodging 
to  lodging,  as  though  he  were  a  hunted  criminal. 
He  believed  himself  to  be  in  the  direst  poverty,  and 
went  from  friend  to  friend  humbly  soliciting  the  loan 
of  seven-and-sixpence,  when  he  had  in  his  pocket  a 
banker's  draft  for  fifty  pounds,  which  he  did  not 
know  how  to  convert  into  cash.  Beggars,  loafers, 
and  wastrels  of  every  description  found  in  him  an 
easy  prey.  Lodging-house  keepers  stole  his  papers, 
and  sold  them  back  to  him  at  exorbitant  ransom  ; 
they  made  him  believe  himself  culpable  of  faults 
which  he  had  never  even  imagined ;  when  every 
other  method  of  fraud  failed,  they  invented  a  death 
in  the  family,  and  extorted  supposititious  funeral 
expenses  from  him.  In  the  days  when  his  fame  was 
most  brilliant  in  Edinburgh  society,  he  lived  in 
obscurity,  and  looked  like  a  beggar.  His  most 
intimate  friends  never  knew  where  to  find  him. 
When  he  had  completely  filled  the  room  in  which  he 
happened  to  be  living  with  an  illimitable  confusion 
of  papers — '  Snowed  himself  up,'  as  he  called  it — his 
practice  was  to  disappear,  and  begin  the  same  pro- 
cess somewhere  else.  The  only  way  to  get  him  to 
a  dinner-party  was  to  send  an  able-bodied  man  to 
find  him  and  bring  him  by  force.     Occasionally  he 


142  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

revenged  himself  by  making  a  stay  of  several  weeks, 
so  that  the  difficulty  of  getting  him  into  a  friend's 
house  was  forgotten  in  the  more  appalling  difficulty 
of  how  to  get  him  out  again.  At  one  time  he  took 
sanctuary  in  Holyrood,  believing  himself  in  instant 
peril  of  arrest  for  debt ;  as  a  matter  of  fact,  his 
debts  were  inconsiderable,  and  large  sums  were  due 
to  him,  which  he  had  either  received  and  mis- 
laid, or  had  never  applied  for.  He  had  no  idea 
whatever  of  the  value  of  his  own  work.  When  he  is 
over  sixty,  with  an  established  reputation,  he  goes  to 
editorial  and  publishing  offices,  meekly  hawking  his 
articles,  as  though  he  were  an  emulous  amateur. 
Thus,  with  a  genius  of  the  rarest  order,  a  secure 
reputation,  and  a  ready  market  for  his  work,  De 
Quincey  reproduced  the  traditions,  and  lived  after 
the  fashion,  of  the  most  obscure  Grub  Street  hack 
of  Johnson's  day,  and  for  no  apparent  reason  except 
that  this  was  the  sort  of  life  which  he  preferred. 

For  much  of  this  extraordinary  eccentricity  of 
habit  no  doubt  opium  was  responsible.  It  is  now 
certain  that  he  suffered  from  gastrodynia,  an  obscure 
form  of  internal  inflammation,  which  produces  the 
acutest  physical  misery.  For  this  malady  he  found 
opium  a  specific.  Solid  food  of  any  kind  was 
abhorrent  to  him,  and  could  only  be  taken  in  the 
smallest  quantities.  Opium  gave  him  instant  relief; 
and,  as  he  soon  found,  had  a  remarkable  effect  upon 
the  mind.  The  sordid  realities  of  existence  dis- 
solved into  rose-tinted  clouds ;  squalor  became 
splendour,  life  a  dream,  the  world  a  gorgeous  in- 
substantial pageant.  The  barriers  of  Time  and 
space,  those  landmarks  and  anchorages  of  the  finite, 
themselves  disappeared,  and  the  mind  recovered  the 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCE  Y  143 

temporary  freedom  of  the  infinite.  Obviously,  for 
most  men  such  an  emancipation  would  be  likely  to 
involve  the  dissolution  of  virtue  and  the  moral  sense  ; 
with  De  Quincey  it  meant  simply  the  severance  from 
the  conventional.  The  opium-dreams  of  De  Quincey 
were  not  sensual  but  spiritual.  They  had  the  singu- 
lar effect  of  greatly  stimulating  both  the  intellectual 
and  the  moral  powers.  What  they  dissolved  was 
the  material,  the  commonplace,  the  ordinary  aspects 
of  life.  Hence  the  unconscious  incongruity  and 
even  absurdity  of  his  habits.  If  he  was  entirely 
ignorant  of  the  value  of  money,  and  even  of  its  use ; 
if  he  turned  night  into  day,  prowled  round  the 
bridges  of  Edinburgh  when  all  slept  but  he,  clothed 
himself  in  the  first  chance  garments  that  came  to 
hand,  appeared  at  dinner-parties  in  a  finely-selected 
assortment  of  rags,  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 
among  the  throngs  of  his  fellow-men,  and  behaved 
generally  as  no  other  man  would  have  cared  or  dared 
to  behave,  it  was  because  the  ordinary  world  of  hum- 
drum civilised  customs  did  not  exist  for  him.  He 
was  under  no  obligation  to  live  after  the  manner  of 
a  world  whose  very  existence  was  only  real  to  him 
at  intervals.  He  claimed  to  be  judged  by  standards 
very  different  from  those  which  we  should  apply  to 
our  ordinary  fellow-mortals.  And,  to  the  great 
credit  of  all  who  knew  him  with  any  intimacy,  he 
was  so  judged.  He  was  loved  and  esteemed  by 
some  of  the  best  men  and  women  of  his  time. 
They  laughed  perhaps  at  his  grotesque  childlike 
unfamiliarity  with  the  commonest  matters  of  prac- 
tical life,  but  they  knew  him  as  wise,  tender,  and 
patient,  they  listened  with  delight  to  his  conversa- 
tion, they  shielded  him  as  far  as  they  were  able  from 


144  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

the  inconveniences  of  his  conduct,  they  honoured 
him  alike  as  mystic  and  man. 

Even  if  De  Quincey  had  never  come  under  the 
thrall  of  opium,  it  is  doubtful  if  he  ever  could  have 
behaved  like  an  ordinary  mortal.  There  are  some 
natures  constitutionally  incapable  of  conventional 
behaviour.  A  drop  of  wild  blood  has  been  mixed 
with  the  sober  sequences  of  pedigree :  the  nomad  is 
resurgent  in  them,  the  Ishmaelite,  the  restless  tenant 
of  some  forgotten  primeval  world.  Such  a  nature 
was  Thoreau's ;  George  Borrow  showed  the  same 
characteristics,  and  so,  from  the  first,  did  De 
Quincey.  Civilisation  is,  in  essence,  an  attempt  to 
tame  nature,  and  one  of  its  most  palpable  results  is 
the  attenuation  of  vigorous  individualities.  But  even 
in  the  oldest  civilisations  from  time  to  time  men  are 
born  who  refuse  to  come  under  the  yoke.  They 
prefer  strenuous  liberty  to  bondage  with  ease.  They 
are  irresistibly  attracted  by  the  life  of  the  open  road, 
the  hard  adventurous  life  of  the  wanderer  who  has 
never  seen  a  tax-gatherer  nor  paid  a  rate.  Perhaps 
of  all  mortals  they  are  the  happiest,  because  they 
have  the  fewest  wants  and  the  sources  of  their 
happiness  are  the  easiest  of  access.  Pity  is  wasted 
on  them  :  they  have  their  own  methods  of  delight, 
of  which  the  dull  plodding  citizen  knows  nothing  ; 
and  even  amid  the  real  hardships  of  their  lot,  they 
retain  much  of  the  irresponsible  joyousness  of  the 
bird  or  of  the  child. 

With  all  his  fits  of  profound  melancholy,  De 
Quincey  thus  lived  a  happy  life  by  living  it  in  his 
own  way.  One  can  hardly  pity  the  emancipated 
schoolboy  wandering  at  large  through  Wales,  sleep- 
ing on  bare  hillsides,  the  debtor  of  a  casual  charity, 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCE Y  145 

and  hard  put  to  it  at  times  to  find  bread.  Nor  can 
one  altogether  pity  the  youth  sucked  into  the  vortex 
of  London  life,  familiar  with  'stony-hearted  Oxford 
Street,'  and  the  brother  of  its  sad  sisterhoods.  He 
possessed  the  temperament  which  idealises  all  things, 
so  that  all  he  saw  was  seen  in  vast  misty  outlines,  a 
cloudy  phantasmagoria — to  use  a  favourite  word  of 
his  own — painted  on  the  palimpsest  of  his  brain. 
Even  in  his  sensations  of  suffering  there  was  some- 
thing peculiar,  poignant,  and  intense,  which  brought 
them  subtly  near  to  delight,  in  the  same  way  in 
which  extreme  cold  becomes  impregnated  with  the 
sensation  of  heat.  Most  men  who  had  endured  the 
rough  handling  which  De  Ouincey  endured  in  youth, 
would  have  been  glad  to  forget  it  all  as  a  bad  dream; 
if  they  had  reflected  on  it  at  intervals  it  would  have 
been  with  disgust  or  shame.  To  speak  of  such 
things  by  way  of  literary  performance,  would  have 
seemed  an  outrage  on  the  modesty  of  nature ; 
especially  when  the  narrative  involved  the  confession 
of  a  habit  so  enslaving  as  the  opium  habit,  which 
very  early  became  an  integral  factor  of  De  Quincey's 
life.  But  De  Quincey  felt  no  shame  in  such  con- 
fessions, because  he  idealised  all  his  experiences. 
He  tells  us  with  perfect  calmness  of  all  the  sordid 
miseries  he  endured,  and  of  his  growing,  and  at  last 
abject,  enslavement  to  opium,  because  he  realised 
these  things  only  from  their  subjective  side.  He 
speaks  as  a  child  might  speak,  with  astounding 
frankness,  yet  with  complete  innocence.  There  is 
hardly  a  more  curious  phenomenon  in  literary  his- 
tory than  this.  Were  his  Confessions  of  an  Opium- 
eater  entirely  destitute  of  style,  yet  it  would  remain 
one  of  the   most  remarkable  human  documents  in 

K 


146  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

existence ;  when  there  is  added  to  its  extraordinary 
subject  matter  a  style  never  surpassed  in  eloquence 
or  imaginative  richness,  it  is  not  difficult  to  under- 
stand how  De  Quincey  has  come  to  occupy  the 
place  of  a  classic. 

De  Quincey  is  at  his  best  in  the  Confessions  and 
parts  of  the  Suspiria,  because  in  these  writings  he 
found  the  fullest  opportunity  for  the  display  of 
emotion  and  imagination.  By  nature  and  instinct 
he  was  a  poet ;  by  which  I  mean  that  his  apprehension 
of  things  was  essentially  poetic.  There  are  indeed 
passages  in  the  Confessions  which  are  so  exquisitely 
modulated  that  they  may  be  described  as  lyric,  and 
they  produce  the  kind  of  aesthetic  pleasure  which 
is  peculiar  to  great  poetry.  Take  the  well-known 
passage  in  which  he  speaks  of  the  tumultuous  horror 
and  ecstasy  of  his  dreams,  full  of  the  oppression  of 
inexpiable  guilt,  dominated  by  the  sense  of  'my- 
sterious eclipse,'  penetrated  by  a  strange  '  music  of 
preparation  and  awakening  surprise.  .  .  .  Then,  like  a 
chorus,  the  passion  deepened.  Some  greater  interest 
was  at  stake,  some  mightier  cause  than  ever  yet  the 
sword  had  pleaded,  or  trumpet  had  proclaimed. 
Then  came  sudden  alarms,  hurryings  to  and  fro : 
trepidations  of  innumerable  fugitives,  I  knew  not 
whether  from  the  good  cause  or  the  bad  ;  darkness 
and  lights ;  tempest  and  human  faces  ;  and  at  last, 
with  the  sense  that  all  was  lost,  female  forms  and 
the  features  that  were  worth  all  the  world  to  me ; 
and  but  a  moment  allowed — and  clasped  hands  with 
heart-breaking  partings,  and  then — everlasting  fare- 
wells !  and  with  a  sigh,  such  as  the  caves  of  Hell 
sighed  when  the  incestuous  mother  uttered  the 
abhorred  name  of  Death,  the  sound  was  reverberated 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCE  Y  147 


— everlasting  farewells!  and  again,  and  yet  again 
reverberated  everlasting  farewells !  And  I  awoke 
in  struggles,  and  cried  aloud,  "  I  will  sleep  no 
more  ! "  Here  we  have  an  accumulation  of  images, 
each  essentially  poetic.  This  power  of  cumulative 
imagery  is  peculiar  to  De  Quincey.  When  his  mind 
is  strung  to  intensity  he  seems  to  receive  a  multi- 
tude of  almost  simultaneous  impressions  ;  he  com- 
municates to  us  the  sense  of  indescribable  commotion ; 
there  is  a  rush  and  tumult  in  his  rhetoric  which  is 
thrilling  and  overpowering ;  yet,  perhaps,  not  so 
much  a  movement  as  of  a  pageant  that  rolls  past 
us,  as  of  something  that  soars  over  us,  splendour 
capping  splendour,  till  wonder  holds  us  breath- 
less. It  is  like  his  dream  of  the  delirious  Piranesi 
and  his  staircase  ;  aerial  flights  of  stairs  open  one 
above  the  other,  till  the  abyss  swallows  all.  And  in 
passages  like  these  the  method  as  well  as  the  matter 
comes  nearer  poetry  than  prose.  Modulations, 
melodies,  and  rhythmic  effects  unknown  to  prose 
surprise  the  ear ;  in  substance  and  expression  they 
are  poetry. 

How  far  what  is  sometimes  called  'prose-poetry' 
is  a  legitimate  form  of  literary  art,  is  a  question  that 
might  be  endlessly  debated.  Most  critics  insist  that 
the  demarcation  between  prose  and  poetry  is  sharp 
and  decisive,  that  the  properties  of  the  one  are  not 
the  properties  of  the  other,  and  that  by  mingling  the 
two  we  do  but  succeed  in  begetting  a  Eurasian  form 
of  literature,  to  which  little  credit  attaches.  But 
such  a  rigid  distinction  can  scarcely  be  maintained. 
The  great  Elizabethan  writers  perpetually  introduce 
into  prose  the  modulations  of  poetry.  In  the  preface 
to  Raleigh's  History  of  the  World  are  many  examples 


148  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

of  this  practice ;  it  is  found  in  Milton's  prose  writ- 
ings, in  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  Urn  Burial,  and  in  the 
pure  melodious  prose  of  the  English  Bible.  Every 
one  recalls  Milton's  superb  description  of  the  English 
nation  :  '  Methinks  I  see  in  my  mind  a  noble  and 
puissant  nation,  rousing  herself  like  a  strong  man 
after  sleep,  and  shaking  her  invincible  locks ;  methinks 
I  see  her  as  an  eagle  mewing  her  mighty  youth, 
and  kindling  her  undazzled  eyes  at  the  full  midday 
beam  ;  purging  and  unsealing  her  long-abused  sight 
at  the  fountain  itself  of  heavenly  radiance  ;  while  the 
whole  noise  of  timorous  and  flocking  birds,  with  these 
also  who  love  the  twilight,  flutter  about  amazed  at 
what  she  means.'  Or  take,  again,  a  well-known  pas- 
sage from  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  Urn  Burial,  wherein 
he  speaks  of  the  bones  of  the  dead  as  having  '  rested 
quietly  under  the  drums  and  tramplings  of  three  con- 
quests.' Every  one  feels  at  once  that  these  splendid 
bursts  of  rhetoric  do  not  justly  belong  to  the  realm  of 
prose.  De  Quincey called  them  'impassioned  prose,' 
and  impassioned  prose  insensibly  fuses  itself  into 
poetry.  In  other  words,  prose  at  a  certain  height  or 
heat  of  passion  becomes  rhythmic,  and  passes  into 
a  series  of  'complex  harmonies,'  common  to  true 
poetry,  but  unusual  in  prose  writing.  To  write  thus 
is  certainly  not  to  beget  a  bastard  or  Eurasian  form 
of  literature.  The  form  is  legitimate  enough,  but  it 
is  rare  because  it  demands  in  the  prose-writer  all  the 
gift  and  temperament  of  the  poet.  De  Quincey  was 
perfectly  right  when  he  described  the  Confessions 
and  the  Suspiria  as  '  modes  of  impassioned  prose ' ; 
the  only  mistake  he  made  was  in  supposing  that  he 
was  the  inventor  of  the  art,  or,  to  quote  his  own 
words,  'that  such  modes  range  themselves  under  no 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  149 

precedent  that  I  am  aware  of  in  literature.'  There 
were  many  precedents  :  Raleigh,  Milton,  and  Sir 
Thomas  Browne  had  all  preceded  him  in  the  art. 
The  only  difference  is,  that  what  these  older  writers 
did  occasionally  he  did  habitually,  and  what  passed 
without  comment  in  their  days  seemed  a  novelty, 
and  even  an  anomaly,  when  introduced  into  the 
sober  literature  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Granted 
the  poetic  temperament  and  genius  in  a  writer,  and 
it  matters  very  little  what  vehicle  of  literary  per- 
formance he  may  select ;  the  temperament  will  over- 
master the  vehicle,  turning  it  to  new  uses,  and  securing 
by  it,  or  in  spite  of  it,  new  effects.  If  De  Quincey 
wrote  what  has  been  called  prose-poetry,  it  was 
simply  because  he  was  a  poet  engaged  in  writing 
prose. 

Naturally,  De  Quincey  did  not  always  keep,  or 
seek  to  keep,  the  level  of  impassioned  prose.  To  tell 
the  truth,  few  writers  have  mixed  more  chaff  with 
their  fine  wheat.  The  dominant  vice  of  his  writing 
is  diffusion.  His  thought  is  seldom  compact.  He 
indulges  in  endless  parentheses  and  qualifications : 
goes  off  at  a  tangent  on  any  idea  that  interests  him 
for  the  moment,  and  is  at  times  prolix  and  tedious 
to  the  last  degree.  It  was  an  admirable  idea  on  the 
part  of  Hogg  to  collect  De  Ouincey's  writings,  but 
it  is  quite  possible  that  De  Quincey  would  have 
stood  higher  in  general  estimation  if  Hogg  had 
stuck  to  his  original  plan  of  publishing  only  six 
volumes  of  Selections.  A  man  who  writes  one 
hundred  and  fifty  magazine  articles  obviously  writes 
often  on  subjects  which  do  not  greatly  interest  him. 
Moreover,  few  writers  resist  the  temptation  of  writ- 
ing carelessly  on  ephemeral  subjects,  because  they 


150  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

regard  their  work  as  being  ephemeral  also.  Thus 
De  Quincey's  inaccuracies  are  many.  In  his  essay 
on  Wordsworth,  he  quotes  five  passages  of  his 
Prelude  from  memory,  and  of  the  five  only  one  is 
correct.  On  any  matter  where  truth  is  in  con- 
troversy, De  Quincey  is  the  unsafest  possible  ex- 
ponent of  the  facts  of  the  case.  Often,  also,  his 
extremely  fine  analytical  faculty  is  put  to  very  poor 
tasks  of  mere  logic-chopping.  When  he  attempts 
humour,  he  nearly  always  fails.  Pathos  of  the 
sombre  and  melancholy  kind  he  could  always  com- 
mand, but  humour  eluded  him.  In  fact,  what  one 
misses  in  De  Quincey  is  the  note  of  his  really  great 
mind.  An  ingenious  and  subtle  mind  he  had  ;  an 
imagination  of  singular  intensity  and  power ;  but 
that  massiveness  of  nature  which  gives  to  the  work 
of  the  greatest  men  a  certain  cohesive  and  inherent 
force  and  dignity,  is  not  found  in  De  Quincey. 

Yet  in  many  respects,  dreamer  as  he  was,  he  was 
very  shrewd,  and  had  the  keenest  eye.  Probably 
the  best,  because  the  most  lifelike,  picture  ever 
painted  of  Wordsworth  is  De  Quincey's.  It  is  not 
altogether  flattering,  and  possibly  on  some  minor 
points  it  is  not  accurate.  But  when  he  tells  us  that 
Wordsworth  was  '  too  much  enamoured  of  an  ascetic 
harsh  sublimity ' ;  that  he  was  extremely  self-centred 
and,  therefore,  in  small  ways  selfish  ;  that  there  was 
little  benignity  about  him  ;  that  in  person  he  was 
not  impressive,  his  head  being  commonplace  and  his 
appearance  almost  mean,  he  gives  us  a  vivid  and  true 
account,  in  which  every  detail  has  been  carefully 
studied.  It  is  not  surprising  that  the  picture  gave 
great  offence  to  Wordsworth,  but  Wordsworth  might 
have  remembered  that  De  Quincey  was  not  writing 


THOMAS  DE  Q  UINCE  V  151 

captiously,  but  in  a  spirit  of  the  utmost  loyalty  and 
admiration.  He  appreciated  Wordsworth's  poetry 
when  few  others  did  so,  and  never  failed  to  champion 
his  cause.  He  had  known  what  it  was  actually  to 
tremble  in  the  presence  of  Wordsworth  ;  he  had  met 
him  first  with  such  an  intensity  of  expectation  that 
'had  Charlemagne  and  all  his  peerage  been  behind 
me,  or  Caesar  and  his  equipage,  or  Death  on  his  pale 
horse,  I  should  have  forgotten  them.'  Even  when 
he  is  criticising  the  physical  shortcomings  of  Words- 
worth, he  is  at  pains  to  tell  us  that  his  facial  likeness 
to  Milton  was  astounding,  and  that  in  certain 
moments  of  conversation  he  saw  in  Wordsworth's 
eyes  an  expression  the  most  solemn  and  spiritual 
that  he  had  ever  seen, '  a  light  which  seemed  to  come 
from  unfathomed  depths,  truly  a  light  that  never 
was  on  land  or  sea.'  Such  an  essay  as  this  suggests 
that  De  Quincey  had  the  makings  of  a  first-rate 
biographer  in  him,  if  inclination  and  opportunity 
had  coincided. 

Authors  who  leap  into  sudden  fame  through  some 
personal  cause  often  have  to  pay  the  penalty  of 
being  ranked  after  death  as  much  below  their  rightful 
place,  as  in  life  they  were  elevated  above  it.  This 
is,  in  part,  true  of  De  Quincey.  From  the  moment 
that  the  Confessions  of  an  English  Opium-eater  saw 
the  light,  De  Quincey  was  famous.  His  matter  and 
style  were  new  and  entrancing,  the  story  deeply  sug- 
gestive and  affecting.  But  in  later  generations  the 
story  is  familiar,  and  its  novelty  is  discounted.  Thus 
it  happens  that  we  judge  him  by  a  colder  light,  and 
are  insensible  to  the  glamour  that  once  clothed  his 
name.  The  dispassionate  critic  sweeps  aside  as  en- 
tirely irrelevant  to  the  case  the  fact  that  De  Quincey 


152  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

drank  laudanum  by  the  wine-glass.  Johnson  was  a 
voracious  eater;  Shelley  lived  on  vegetables ;  Keats 
peppered  his  tongue,  that  his  palate  might  be  more 
sensitive  to  the  coolness  of  a  fine  wine ;  but  such 
habits  and  eccentricities  are  best  forgotten  when  we 
discuss  questions  of  literature.  The  case  of  De 
Quincey,  in  regard  to  opium-eating,  is  analogous  to 
the  case  of  a  painter  who  has  no  hands,  and  has 
learned  to  paint  with  his  toes.  Many  estimable 
artists  might  paint  as  well  with  their  hands,  but  it  is 
natural  that  the  man  who  paints  with  his  toes  should 
be  much  more  talked  of,  and  attract  a  quite  dispro- 
portionate share  of  fame.  The  wonder  is  not  that 
the  thing  is  done  well,  but  that  it  is  done  at  all. 

It  is  clear  that  the  personal  elements  in  De 
Quincey's  living  fame  have  not  helped  him  with 
posterity,  beyond  giving  a  peculiar  interest  to  his 
history.  But  when  every  sort  of  deduction  is  made, 
few  persons  will  doubt  that  De  Quincey's  fame  is 
legitimate,  and  that  his  place  as  a  literary  artist  is 
secure.  As  a  literary  artist ;  for  his  contribution  to 
the  history  of  human  thought,  or  to  the  growth  of 
philosophy,  is  inconsiderable.  Nor  are  his  critical 
judgments  of  any  great  value.  He  had  the  insight 
to  discern  the  greatness  of  Wordsworth,  it  is  true ; 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  he  derided  Locke,  called 
Johnson  mendacious  and  dishonest,  spoke  of  Goethe's 
Wilhelm  Meister  as  nonsense,  rated  Horace  Walpole 
about  Voltaire  as  a  memoir  writer,  and  had  no  words 
strong  enough  to  express  his  contempt  and  detesta- 
tion of  Rousseau.  His  real  strength  lay  not  in  any 
power  of  original  thought,  or  any  gift  of  luminous 
criticism,  but  in  that  narrow  realm  of  letters  which 
may   be    designated    literary    phantasy.       Here   the 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCE  Y  153 

literary  artist  appears ,  the  man  of  rare  delicacy  of 
ear  and  exquisite  sense  of  words  who,  by  means  of 
language,  secures  effects  that  can  be  best  described 
as  musical.  He  himself  makes  no  secret  of  his 
method  :  he  explains  that  he  laboured  to  attain  'the 
evasion  of  cacophony,'  and  that  his  ear  could  not 
endure  'a  sentence  ending  with  two  consecutive 
trochees.'  And  the  result  is  often  very  beautiful: 
the  best  passages  of  De  Quincey  have  never  been 
surpassed  for  sustained  splendour  of  language, 
exquisite  balance  and  modulation,  and  rhythmical 
charm.  No  doubt  one  might  tire  of  such  a  style  in 
a  compendious  work  of  history,  but  in  the  brief 
essays  of  De  Quincey  it  is  the  most  seductive  and 
impressive  of  styles.  The  man  who  wore  pure  cloth 
of  gold  by  way  of  ordinary  apparel  would  be  a 
ridiculous  object,  but  there  are  occasions  when  it 
may  be  worn  with  fine  effect.  In  this  respect  De 
Quincey  stands  related  to  the  great  masters  of  a 
soberer  prose,  much  as  Poe  does  to  the  great  poets. 
Poe  performs  the  most  astounding  jugglery  with 
words,  and  with  results  so  inimitable  that  none  can 
deny  his  rank  among  the  true  poets  of  the  world. 
But  no  one  would  dream  of  comparing  Poe  with 
Wordsworth ;  nor  would  one  compare  De  Quincey 
with  Milton ;  although  in  their  own  way  Poe  and 
De  Quincey  are  as  deserving  of  praise  as  Words- 
worth and  Milton.  But  it  is  the  way  of  the  literary 
artist,  as  distinguished  from  the  great  seer  or  the 
profound  thinker.  In  those  steadfast  qualities  of 
character,  which,  after  all,  constitute  the  immovable 
basis  of  great  fame — that  interior  force  of  soul  and 
personality  which  make  Milton  and  Wordsworth 
living  and  abiding  influences — De  Quincey  was  as 


154  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

deficient  as  Poe ;  but,  like  Poe,  he  was  one  of  the 
greatest  of  literary  artists,  loving  and  using  his  art 
for  its  own  sake  in  the  main,  and  it  is  as  a  literary- 
artist  of  extraordinary  accomplishment  that  De 
Quincey  will  be  remembered. 


CHAPTER  XI 

CHARLES    LAMB 

[Born  in  The  Temple,  London,  February  10,  1775.  Educated  at 
Christ's  Hospital,  which  he  left  in  November  1789.  Obtained  a 
clerkship  in  the  India  House,  1792.  Blank  Verse,  by  Charles 
Lloyd  and  Charles  Lamb,  1798;  Rosamund  Gray,  1798  ;  John 
Woodvil,  a  Drama,  1802;  Tales  fro?n  Shakespeare,  1807  ;  Essays 
by  Elia,  begun  in  London  Magazine,  1820  ;  Collected  Edition, 
1823  ;  Last  Essays  of  Elia,  1833.  Died  at  Enfield,  29th  Decem- 
ber 1834.] 

THE  art  of  essay-writing  which  De  Quincey  perfected 
in  one  form,  was  carried  to  a  yet  rarer  perfection  by 
Charles  Lamb.  In  his  hands  it  became  a  vehicle  of 
the  brightest  banter,  of  the  most  intimate  personal 
confession,  and  of  a  peculiarly  humane  and  tender 
wisdom.  Lamb  is  frankly  an  egoist,  as  was  Mon- 
taigne, but  of  a  much  more  genial  temper.  There  is 
a  gentleness  in  his  irony  and  a  sweetness  in  his 
humour  which  no  one  else  has  attained :  they  spring 
from  his  width  of  sympathy  and  entire  humility. 
He  is  odd  and  delights  in  oddity;  loves  paradox, 
revels  in  perversity,  and  pushes  both  to  the  point  of 
'  delicate  absurdity  ' ;  eccentricity  of  any  kind  attracts 
him,  conventionality  repels ;  he  has  no  scorn  of  human 
weakness,  no  respect  for  any  species  of  respectability ; 
his  wit  is  a  very  Ariel  in  its  lightsomeness,  a  Puck  in 
its  love  of  frolic  ;  and  yet  withal,  a  serious  wisdom 
dwells  within  his  more  fantastic  mood,  and  he  jests 

155 


156  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

as  one  who  hears  behind  his  laughter  '  the  still,  sad 
music  of  humanity.' 

Of  no  man  is  it  truer  that  you  must  either  greatly 
love  him  or  dislike  him.  The  man  of  grave  temper 
will  probably  dislike  him,  finding  little  in  him  but 
frivolity ;  the  man  whose  mind  is  not  too  stiff  to  un- 
bend, and  whose  temper  still  retains  a  certain  buoy- 
ancy of  childhood,  will  find  him  the  most  delightful 
of  companions.  A  great  deal  has  been  made  of  the 
peculiarly  harsh  criticism  which  Carlyle  passed  on 
Lamb,  but  it  is  quite  easy  to  see  how  matters  stood 
between  them.  Carlyle  could  appreciate  humour, 
but  it  was  of  the  '  pawky '  kind  common  to  his 
countrymen,  or  of  the  saturnine  kind  peculiar  to 
Swift.  Lamb's  humour  was  of  the  grotesque  order, 
and  Carlyle  mistook  it  for  buffoonery.  To  Carlyle 
he  was  a  foolish  imp,  grimacing  and  dancing  before 
the  veiled  solemnities  of  life — '  contemptibly  small,' 
'  a  sorry  phenomenon,'  '  an  adept  in  ghastly  make- 
believe  wit'  And  no  doubt  in  the  presence  of 
Carlyle,  Lamb  showed  at  his  worst.  One  of  his 
closest  friends  and  most  ardent  admirers,  Mr.  Pat- 
more,  has  told  us  that  in  unsympathetic  society 
Lamb  always  showed  badly,  and  'the  first  impression 
he  made  on  ordinary  people  was  always  unfavour- 
able, sometimes  to  a  violent  and  repulsive  degree.' 
Lamb  had  a  love  of  shocking  people  who  were 
antipathetic  to  him.  The  presence  of  a  very  solemn 
person  provoked  him  to  impish  perversity  of  temper 
and  absurdity  of  conduct.  Probably  Carlyle  affected 
him  in  this  way.  For  once  the  insight  of  Carlyle 
failed  him,  and  he  did  not  perceive  the  real  genius  of 
Lamb,  and  not  so  much  as  guessed  that  out  of  pure 
mischief  Lamb  was  deluding  him  by  a  pretence  of 


CHARLES  LAMB  157 


folly,  and  all  the  while  quietly  deriding  him  for  his 
Scotch  obtuseness. 

If  Lamb  sometimes  behaved  in  a  way  scarcely 
compatible  with  common  sense,  or  even  sanity,  his 
temperament  and  history  should  be  remembered. 
No  man  ever  carried  a  heavier  burden  through  life. 
Every  one  knows  the  pathetic  story  of  his  sister's 
mania,  and  the  cloud  which  it  threw  over  both  lives. 
It  is  not  always  recollected  that  Lamb  himself  had 
at  one  time  been  confined  in  an  asylum.  With  him 
the  attack  soon  passed  and  never  returned,  but  the 
taint  was  in  him.  Those  who  loved  him  knew  this, 
and  knew  how  to  make  allowance  for  his  oddities. 
Haydon,  the  painter,  recounts  an  inimitable  scene,  in 
which  Lamb  showed  himself  in  his  most  irresponsible 
humour.  It  was  at  what  Haydon  calls  '  The  immortal 
dinner,'  held  in  his  studio  on  December  28,  1817. 
Wordsworth  and  Keats  were  present,  and  Lamb  led 
the  fun.  '  Now,  you  old  Lake  poet,  you  rascally  poet,' 
he  cried,  '  why  do  you  call  Voltaire  dull?  '  Suddenly 
there  intruded  on  the  company  a  certain  Comptroller 
of  Stamps,  of  abnormal  stupidity,  who  tried  to  make 
himself  agreeable  by  asking  Wordsworth  if  he  did 
not  think  Milton  a  great  genius.  He  followed  this 
up  by  a  similar  question  about  Newton,  whereupon 
Lamb  rose,  in  a  spirit  of  the  wildest  drollery,  called  for 
a  candle,  and  insisted  upon  examining  '  the  phreno- 
logical development'  of  the  unfortunate  comptroller. 
The  comptroller,  nothing  abashed,  put  his  question 
afresh  ;  Lamb  immediately  began  to  sing — 
'Diddle,  diddle  dumpling,  my  son  John, 
Went  to  bed  with  his  breeches  on.' 

1  My    dear    Charles ! '   said    Wordsworth,  but   Lamb 
only  chanted  the  absurd  ditty  the  louder.     '  Do  let 


158  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

me  have  another  look  at  that  gentleman's  organs,' 
he  cried.  Keats  and  Haydon,  properly  scandalised, 
or  pretending  to  be  so,  hurried  Lamb  into  the  paint- 
ing room,  from  which,  amid  peals  of  laughter,  the 
voice  of  Lamb  could  still  be  heard,  importunate — 
'  Allow  me  to  see  his  organs  once  more.'  Here  is 
drollery,  with  just  a  touch  of  madness  in  it,  quite 
scandalous  to  respectability,  and  a  stranger  entirely 
ignorant  of  Lamb,  who  only  saw  him  once,  and  in 
such  a  mood  as  this,  might  be  pardoned  if  he  called 
Lamb's  wit  diluted  insanity.  But  Wordsworth  clearly 
was  not  scandalised,  grave  as  he  was  ;  he  knew  Lamb 
too  well.  It  might  be  said  of  Lamb,  as  of  Abraham 
Lincoln,  '  laughter  was  his  vent ' ;  if  he  had  not 
laughed,  he  would  have  died  of  a  frenzied  brain  or 
of  a  broken  heart.  With  Lamb  the  maddest  mood 
of  frolic  was  a  rebound  from  the  blackest  mood  of 
melancholia ;  a  fact  which  Carlyle,  who  did  know 
Lamb's  history,  might  have  remembered  before  he 
used  the  phrase  '  diluted  insanity,'  which  in  view  of 
that  sad  history  is  nothing  less  than  brutal. 

The  oddity  of  Lamb's  behaviour  owed  something, 
no  doubt,  to  his  habits  as  well  as  his  temperament. 
That  Lamb  was  an  habitual  drunkard  is  an  absurd 
charge,  over  which  no  serious  critic  will  pause  for  a 
moment.  But  that  he  was  convivial  in  his  habits, 
often  beyond  the  degree  of  strict  sobriety,  cannot  be 
doubted.  Even  his  sister,  with  all  her  reverence  for 
him,  speaks  of  him  as  coming  home  'very  smoky 
and  drinky.'  He  himself,  in  the  piece  of  pathetic 
banter  in  which  he  describes  '  his  late  friend  Elia, 
admits  that  his  habits  were  scarcely  such  as  respect- 
able persons  would  approve.  He  uses  one  phrase, 
in  apology  for  Elia's  habit  of  smoking,  which  may 


CHARLES  LAMB  159 


cover  other  habits  also,  when  he  speaks  of  tobacco 
as  '  a  solvent  of  speech.'  The  fact  was  that  Lamb 
was  intensely  shy,  and  had  the  shy  man's  morbid  self- 
consciousness  and  sensitive  dread  of  society.  Speech, 
in  any  case  difficult  to  him,  was  rendered  doubly 
difficult  by  his  stammer.  One  can  readily  under- 
stand that  to  such  a  man  stimulants  proved  a  'solvent 
of  speech.'  They  served  to  unlock,  as  Mr.  Patmore 
puts  it,  '  the  poor  casket  in  which  the  rich  thoughts 
of  Charles  Lamb  were  shut  up.'  Moreover,  in  the 
early  part  of  the  nineteenth  century,  convivial  habits 
pervaded  society  in  a  degree  now  entirely  unknown. 
The  earlier  novels  of  Dickens  made  much  of  con- 
viviality ;  occasional  inebriety  is  nowhere  treated  as 
a  serious  offence,  whereas  anything  in  the  nature  of 
total  abstinence  is  held  up  to  ridicule.  The  part  that 
the  brandy-bottle  plays  in  The  Pickwick  Papers  is 
enormous,  and  the  social  historian  of  the  future  will 
find  quite  enough  in  Dickens  alone  to  suggest  the 
hard-drinking  habits  of  the  period.  Of  course,  this 
is  no  adequate  excuse  for  Lamb,  but  it  is  at  least  an 
extenuation,  since  men  must  be  judged,  if  they  are 
judged  fairly,  not  only  by  fixed  standards  of  ethics, 
but  by  the  nature  of  their  times.  Lamb  in  these 
matters  was  certainly  no  worse,  probably,  indeed, 
very  much  more  strict,  than  the  average  writer  of 
his  days. 

The  charm  of  Lamb  to  those  who  knew  him  best 
lay  in  his  infinite  kindliness  of  heart,  and  the  singular 
acuteness  of  his  wit.  No  one  could  turn  a  phrase 
with  more  rapid  felicity,  frame  a  happier  repartee, 
sum  up  in  a  stroke  of  wit  so  profound  a  criticism  of 
literature  or  life.  '  An  archangel,  a  little  damaged,' 
— such   is   his   trenchant    description   of  Coleridge 


160  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

*  Charles,  did  you  ever  hear  me  preach  ? '  asked  Cole- 
ridge once.  '  I  never  heard  you  do  anything  else,' 
answered  Lamb.  '  If  dirt  were  trumps,  what  a  hand 
you  would  have/  he  once  said  to  an  unsavoury  card- 
player.  He  can  even  joke  on  his  own  misfortunes — 
— '  the  wind  is  tempered  to  the  shorn  Lambs ' — a 
peculiarly  happy  use  of  quotation,  an  art  in  which  he 
excelled.  It  is  the  same  in  his  Essays ;  a  wit  that 
surprises  and  delights  us  meets  us  on  every  page. 
The  oddity  of  a  man  or  of  a  situation  is  hit  off  in  a 
phrase,  as  when  he  says  of  his  landlord  at  Enfield, 
that  he  has  retired  on  forty  pounds  a  year  and  one 
anecdote.  It  was  as  impossible  for  Lamb  to  resist  the 
temptation  of  poking  fun  as  for  Coleridge  to  over- 
come his  habit  of  preaching.  One  wet  night,  after 
supping  with  Coleridge,  he  takes  the  coach  for  Hol- 
born  at  the  foot  of  Highgate  Hill.  As  it  is  starting, 
a  flurried  female  thrusts  her  head  in  at  the  door  and 
asks,  '  Are  you  all  full  inside  ?  '  'I  am,'  says  Lamb, 
with  an  ecstatic  smile — '  it  was  the  last  piece  of  pud- 
ding that  did  it'  Of  his  witty  use  of  quotation  none 
is  cleverer  than  his  remark  to  a  young  barrister  who 
had  just  received  his  first  brief — '  I  suppose  you  said 
to  it,  "Thou  great  First  Cause,  least  understood.'" 
The  tragic  nature  of  his  own  life  not  only  made  him 
welcome  laughter  as  a  relief,  but  led  him  to  recognise 
in  laughter  a  divine  gift.  One  of  his  complaints 
against  the  Elizabethan  dramatists  is  that  they  pur- 
posely dwelt  upon  the  harsh  and  painful  facts  of 
life,  and  were  '  economists  only  in  delight.'  Lamb 
knew  more  than  enough  of  the  pain  of  life,  but  he 
was  no  economist  in  delight.  His  is  the  spirit  of 
genuine  mirth  springing  from  an  acute  knowledge  of 
human  nature,  but  always  restrained  from  bitterness 


CHARLES  LAMB  161 


by  a  recognition  of  man's  inherent  nobility.  No  one 
who  ever  saw  the  foibles  and  errors  of  human  nature 
so  clearly  has  spoken  of  them  so  tenderly  ;  it  is  not 
his  '  to  torture  and  wound  us  abundantly,'  as  Ford 
and  Webster  do  ;  rather  there  is  in  him  that  unfailing 
1  sweetness  and  good-naturedness '  which  he  attri- 
butes to  Shakespeare. 

Lamb's  discovery  of  his  own  genius  was  as  nearly 
accidental  as  might  be.     He  was  long  enough  at  the 
Christ's  Hospital  to  imbibe  a  passion  for  literature 
and  form  a  close  friendship  with  Coleridge.      When 
he  left  the  school  it  became  necessary  for  him  at  once 
to  earn  his  bread.    No  obliging  friends  stepped  in,  as 
in  the  case  of  Coleridge,  to  secure  for  him  by  their 
generosity  '  shelter  to  grow  ripe  and  leisure  to  grow 
wise.'     His  father  was  in  ill-health,  his  brother  John 
had  sailed  off  on  his  own  course,  determined  to  make 
the  most  of  his  own  life,  and  the  family  came  near  to 
depending  on  Lamb  for  bread.     What  better  could 
be  desired  than  the  common  shift  of  the  hard-driven, 
middle-class    Londoner — a   clerkship  ?      So    to    his 
clerking  Lamb  went,  stifling  any  disappointment  he 
felt   as   he  best  could,  and    uttering  no  complaint. 
The  entire  burden  of  the  family  soon  rested  on  his 
young   shoulders.      Then    poverty   suddenly  joined 
itself  to   tragedy ;    no   less   dreadful    spectres   than 
madness  and  murder  became  his  familiars.     As  one 
reads  the  story,  the  wonder  grows  that  Lamb  ever 
gathered  strength  to  lift  up  his  head  again.      Once, 
and  once  only,  does  a  cry  of  despair  escape  him  :  •  I 
am  completely  shipwrecked,'  he  writes,  '  my  head  is 
quite    bad.     I    almost  wish    that   Mary  were  dead.' 
I>ut  in  Lamb  there  was  a  quiet  indomitable    mag- 
nanimity which  the  greatest  might  envy.     He  recog- 

L 


162  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

nised  at  once  that  the  supreme  practical  duty  of  his 
life  henceforth  was  to  care  for  his  sister.  Mary 
Lamb  was  a  remarkable  woman.  She  had  early 
learned  to  love  the  older  literature,  and  she  had 
much  of  her  brother's  fine  critical  gift.  Her  mental 
malady  was  intermittent,  allowing  long  periods  of 
perfect  lucidity.  Its  signs  were  well  defined,  and  at 
the  first  approach  of  danger  there  was  but  one  course 
— instant  return  to  the  asylum.  On  these  terms  the 
brother  and  sister  found  life  possible;  but  who  can 
estimate  the  horror  of  anxiety  which  hung  over  it, 
the  sense  of  calamity  not  yet  placated,  perhaps  to 
prove  implacable  to  the  end  ?  Was  ever  literary  life 
lived  before  under  such  conditions  ?  Is  there  in  the 
invention  of  the  greatest  dramatic  genius  any  situa- 
tion more  terrible,  any  picture  more  pathetic  than 
that  of  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb  walking  through 
the  meadows  in  the  morning  sunlight,  hand-in-hand, 
bathed  in  tears,  toward  the  asylum,  where,  from  time 
to  time,  Mary  Lamb  became  a  voluntary  prisoner? 

Possibly,  however,  the  conditions  of  such  a  life 
helped  to  turn  it  inward,  and  contributed  more  than 
we  know  to  the  development  of  Lamb's  genius. 
Lamb  knew  what  the  'city  of  the  mind  '  meant.  In 
one  of  his  earlier  letters  he  uses  a  phrase  that  reveals 
much  ;  he  says  that  he  and  his  sister  were  marked. 
Interpreted  into  gross  fact  this  means  that  he  found 
the  outer  life  unfriendly  to  him.  There  were  sudden 
exits  from  lodgings,  quests  for  new  lodgings  ;  a  man 
of  odd  habits,  a  woman  liable  to  fits  of  insanity  were 
not  likely  to  be  welcome  guests  among  landladies. 
There  were,  no  doubt,  coarse  words,  coarse  actions  ; 
things  said  and  done  that  wounded  the  fugitives  to 
the  quick.     To  think  on  such  things  only — that  way 


CHARLES  LAMB  163 


madness  lay.  It  was  absolutely  necessary,  as  a  mere 
term  on  which  life  could  be  held  at  all,  to  get  outside 
one's  self.  And  so  Lamb  retired  into  the  city  of  the 
mind  :  dwelt  with  delight  in  the  seclusions  of  the 
older  literature ;  knew  his  Thomas  Browne,  his 
Donne,  his  Cowley,  his  Burton  well ;  fed  his  mind 
with  their  wisdom  and  their  quaintness,  and  forgot 
the  outer  world.  It  is  sometimes  complained  that 
Larnb  cares  nothing  for  Nature.  This  is  not  quite 
true,  for  his  essays  show  us  that  he  found  great 
pleasure  in  scenery  of  a  quiet  pastoral  type  ;  but  it  is 
so  far  true  that  Lamb  was  pre-eminently  a  citizen. 
Solitary  Nature  was  much  too  solitary  for  a  mind 
smitten  with  such  incurable  grief  as  Lamb's.  But 
London,  with  its  incessant  pageant,  its  curious,  end- 
less, shifting  spectacle,  was  curative  to  him.  He 
could  lose  himself  in  it.  It  afforded  him  precisely 
what  he  needed — an  opportunity  for  constant  obser- 
vation, a  drama  that  excited  him,  and  dispelled  his 
gloom.  Skiddaw  he  once  saw  and  climbed,  but  his 
heart  was  in  London — '  London,  whose  dirtiest  and 
drab-frequented  alleys  I  would  not  exchange  for 
Skiddaw,  Helvellyn,  James,  Walter,  and  the  Parson 
into  the  bargain.  O  !  her  lamps  of  a  night !  her  rich 
goldsmiths,  print-shops,  toy-shops,  mercers,  hard- 
ware men,  pastry-cooks,  St.  Paul's  Churchyard,  the 
Strand,  Exeter  Change,  Charing  Cross,  with  the 
man  upon  a  black  horse.  All  the  streets  and  pave- 
ments are  pure  gold,  I  warrant  you.  At  least,  I 
know  an  alchemy  that  turns  her  mud  into  that  metal 
— a  mind  that  loves  to  be  at  home  in  crowds.'  Thus, 
with  his  books  and  the  streets,  Lamb  contrived  to 
touch  happiness,  and  found  in  them  the  magic  which 
at  last  set  free  his  genius. 


164  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

But  the  process  was  slow.  There  are  records  of 
jokes  written  for  the  papers  at  the  munificent  rate  of 
sixpence  apiece.  Comparative  affluence  is  reached 
with  two  guineas  a  week  from  the  Post.  Many 
experiments  in  authorship  are  tried,  among  them 
a  farce  hissed  off  the  stage  on  the  first  night,  Lamb 
himself  joining  vigorously  in  damning  it.  His  little 
tale  of  Rosamund  Gray  brought  him  some  reputa- 
tion. Shelley  was  much  impressed  by  it,  and  said 
of  it,  '  How  much  knowledge  of  the  sweetest  and 
deepest  part  of  our  nature  is  in  it !  When  I  think  of 
such  a  mind  as  Lamb's,  when  I  see  how  unnoticed 
remain  things  of  such  exquisite  and  complete  per- 
fection, what  should  I  hope  for  myself,  if  I  had  not 
higher  objects  in  view  than  fame?'  Brief  as  this 
criticism  is,  yet  it  is  remarkable  how  unerringly 
Shelley  discerns  the  true  nature  of  Lamb's  genius. 
It  is  precisely  in  knowledge  of  the  deepest  and 
sweetest  part  of  our  nature  that  Lamb  excels,  and 
what  he  knew  he  was  able  to  communicate  in  an  art 
of  unrivalled  delicacy.  Already  in  some  of  his 
verses,  for  example,  the  lines  beginning, 

'When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die,' 

this  rare  delicacy  of  touch  had  been  very  marked. 
At  last  the  opportunity  of  a  wider  use  for  his  gift 
came.  In  January  1820,  The  London  Magazine  was 
founded,  and  in  the  August  number  the  first  Essay 
of  Elia  appeared.  Lamb  was  now  forty-five.  His 
gift  had  taken  long  to  ripen  ;  he  now  found  himself, 
and  in  the  essay  discovered  the  one  form  of  literary 
expression  adequate  to  his  genius. 

With  the  nature  of  these  Essays  all  students  of 
literature  are  familiar.     A  man  of  genius  who  has 


CHARLES  LAMB  165 


lived  through  such  a  life  as  Lamb's  does  not  come  to 
forty-five  without  learning  many  hard  lessons.  By 
this  time  he  will  be  gently  detached  from  the  world, 
purged  of  the  yeasty  vanity  of  youth,  softened  in 
spirit  toward  all  men — that  is,  if  his  heart  be  good — 
philosophic  in  temper,  apt  in  reminiscence,  mellow  in 
judgment.  From  one  point  of  view,  Lamb  recalls 
Thomas  a  Kempis.  Each  has  passed  his  life  in  a 
cloister,  the  one  in  a  cloister  of  literature,  the  other 
of  religion  ;  each  speaks  with  the  same  far-away 
cadence  in  the  voice,  the  same  instinct  of  felicity, 
the  same  tempered,  peaceful,  almost  happy  sadness. 
Lamb  in  mediaeval  times  might  very  well  have  been 
a  monk  sworn  to  scholarship  ;  Thomas  a  Kempis  in 
the  rough  tumult  of  modern  London  might  very  well 
have  taken  refuge  in  the  Temple — does  he  not  con- 
fess that  he  was  never  happier  than  in  a  nook  with 
a  book'?  It  is  the  entire  unworldliness  of  Lamb 
that  does  as  much  to  fascinate  us  as  anything.  He 
speaks  as  one  who  has  long  ago  seen  through  the 
sham  of  the  world,  yet  is  preserved  by  his  own 
sweetness  of  nature  from  the  least  touch  of  cynicism. 
The  way  in  which  he  speaks  of  his  brother  John  is 
typical.  The  most  casuistic  of  advocates  could  not 
disguise  the  gross  selfishness  of  John  Lamb.  His 
brother  knew  all  that  well  enough,  but  he  does  not 
choose  to  speak  of  it.  He  paints  John  Lamb  faith- 
fully :  jovial,  smiling,  prosperous  ;  going  up  Picca- 
dilly '  chanting,'  with  his  Hobbima  under  his  arm, 
quite  forgetful  of  poor  Mary,  convinced  that  it  is  his 
destiny  to  enjoy  life  as  it  is  the  destiny  of  Charles  to 
endure  it;  but  there  is  not  one  word  of  complaint, 
of  ill-nature,  of  envy.  The  irony  is  so  gentle  that  its 
sting  is  drawn  ;  it  is  almost  wistful.    And  it  is  in  the 


1 66  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

same  spirit  that  Lamb  regards  life  at  large.  There 
are  no  swelling  words  about  the  inhumanity  of  man 
to  man,  the  cruel  disparities  of  the  human  lot,  the 
hope  of  future  recompense.  The  head  is  bowed  to 
the  yoke  in  perfect  meekness.  Thus  things  are ; 
why  quarrel  with  them  ?  Nay,  more ;  who  would 
have  them  different  ?  John  proceeds  westward  to 
Pall  Mall  '  chanting  a  tune,'  while  I  proceed  in  my 
opposite  direction  '  tuneless ' — opposite,  indeed,  yet 
not  unhappy.  It  is  a  thing  to  smile  at  after  all ; 
clearly,  also,  it  were  wise  to  smile,  since  no  angry 
tirade  can  alter  it.  So  Elia  passes  to  his  toil  with 
the  wise  smile  upon  his  lips,  making  us  feel  that  the 
true  happiness  remains  with  him,  as  it  did  long  since 
with  the  old  monk  who  has  taught  us  to  expect  little 
of  the  world  since  the  world  has  little  to  give,  but  to 
seek  our  wealth  within. 

Upon  the  whole,  it  may  be  said  that  a  more 
religious-minded  man  than  Lamb  has  not  left  his 
mark  on  English  literature.  Not,  of  course,  that  he 
has  anything  to  do  with  creeds,  dogmas,  or  churches; 
to  these  he  is  absolutely  indifferent.  It  is  rather  in 
the  width  of  his  charity,  his  sense  of  pity,  his  fine 
feeling  about  things  that  his  religion  lies.  He  never 
writes  so  beautifully  as  when  his  theme  is  the  affec- 
tions. Places  he  has  loved,  people  he  has  known, 
things  made  sweet  and  familiar  by  memory — with 
what  exquisite  tenderness  does  he  speak  on  such 
matters !  There  is  deep  essential  reverence  under- 
lying his  most  extravagant  badinage.  Jest  he  must, 
but  never  at  sacred  things.  One  slight  story  sums 
up  this  trait.  A  discussion  arose  one  night  in  which 
the  names  of  Shakespeare  and  Christ  were  coupled, 
and  the  disputants  seemed  not  to  recognise  the  gulf 


CHARLES  LAMB  167 


that  lay  between  the  two.  Lamb  restored  the  lost 
equipoise  of  comparison  with  a  single  observation. 
'  If  Shakespeare  entered  the  room,  we  should  all 
rise,'  said  he.  '  If  Jesus  Christ  entered  the  room,  we 
should  all  kneel.' 

Humour  since  Lamb's  day  has  more  and  more 
tended  to  pure  extravagance.  Even  in  Dickens,  the 
greatest  of  all  English  humorists,  this  decadence  is 
very  plain.  Dick  Swiveller  is  humorous,  Sairey 
Gamp  is  humorous,  but  Pecksniff  is  farcical.  In  the 
one  case  you  have  a  character  sketched  humorously, 
but  yet  quite  truly  ;  in  the  other,  you  have  a  farcical 
exaggeration  of  defects,  which  is  quite  untrue  to  life. 
And  it  is  the  fashion  of  Pecksniff  which  has  prevailed 
in  later  humour.  In  almost  all  that  passes  for 
humour  nowadays,  there  is  really  little  else  than 
broad  farce.  Lamb's  is  a  much  more  delicate  and 
subtle  art.  Probably  the  reader  accustomed  to 
a  coarser  draught  will  find  Lamb's  humour  almost 
insipid.  His  art  is  so  artless,  so  pellucid,  so  effort- 
less, that  its  rarity  of  quality  is  not  perceived.  But 
it  is  this  peculiar  delicacy  of  touch  that  makes 
Lamb's  art  original,  and  gives  it  its  most  enduring 
charm.  If  any  fault  may  be  charged  upon  it,  it  is 
that  it  smacks  sometimes  of  affectation.  Lamb  is 
nothing  if  not  bookish.  Loving  writers  like  Sir 
Thomas  Browne  and  Burton  as  he  did,  it  is  not 
surprising  that  he  fell  into  their  conceits  and  repro- 
duced their  quaintness.  But  he  did  not  imitate 
them  ;  rather,  his  whole  mind  was  so  saturated  with 
them,  that  he  could  not  help  expressing  himself  in 
their  manner.  But  even  when  these  admissions  are 
made,  Lamb's  style  was  distinctively  his  own.  The 
odd  turns  of  expression,  the  sudden   flash   of  the 


1 68  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

felicitous  epithet,  owe  something  to  a  profound 
study  of  the  older  writers ;  but  the  spirit  and 
manner  are  distinctive.  As  regards  our  apprecia- 
tion of  these  peculiarities  of  style,  it  is  a  question 
of  palate.  If  the  ordinary  reader  finds  them  tedious 
and  affected  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said.  There 
will  always  be  some — let  us  hope  many — who  will 
love  him  ;  and  those  who  love  him  at  all  will  love 
him  much. 

Lamb's  writings  differ  widely  in  quality,  though  it 
is  scarcely  possible  to  speak  of  good  and  bad  as  it  is 
with  most  authors.     There  are  degrees  of  excellence, 
but  no  positively  inferior  work.     His  best  essays  are 
his  most  intimate ;    these  partake  of  the  nature  of 
confessions,  and  thus  belong  to  the  rarest  form  of 
literature.     In  his  lightest  vein  of  pure  drollery  there 
is   nothing  to  surpass  the  Dissertation   upon  Roast 
Pig.     It  must  also  be  remembered  that  Lamb  was 
one   of  the   finest  critics  whom    English   literature 
has  produced.    He  was  among  the  first  to  recognise 
Wordsworth,  and  it  was  solely  through  his  fine  dis- 
crimination   that   a   taste    for    the    older    dramatic 
writers  was  revived.     Few  people  read  Isaac  Walton 
till  Lamb  praised  him,  and  such  books  as  Burton's 
Anatomy  of  Melancholy  owe  much  of  their  present 
popularity  among  students  of  literature  to  him.     A 
student,  a  philosopher,  a  thinker ;  a  man  of  original 
mind  and  great  critical  discernment ;  a  poet  of  great 
sweetness  within  his   own   range ;    a  most  human- 
hearted    man,   sorely   tried,   but    never    soured    by 
adversity ;  humble,  magnanimous,  charitable  in  all 
his  thoughts  and  acts — one  of  the  most  quaint  and 
lovable  figures  in   all  English   literature — such  was 
Charles  Lamb. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THOMAS    CARLYLE 

[Born  at  Ecclefechan,  December  4th,  1795.  Entered  Edinburgh 
University,  1809.  Published  Life  of  Schiller,  1825.  Married  Jane 
Welsh,  October  1826.  Contributed  to  Edinburgh  Review,  West- 
minster, Foreign  Quarterly,  etc.,  1828-33,  when  Sartor  Resartus 
was  published  in  Eraser's  Magazine.  French  Revolution,  1837. 
Fast  and  Present,  1843.  Latter-Day  Pamphlets,  1850.  Crom- 
welPs  Letters  and  Speeches,  1845.  History  of  Frederick  the  Great, 
begun  1858,  completed  1865.  Elected  Lord  Rector  of  Edinburgh 
University,  1865.  Died  at  5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea,  February  5th, 
1881.] 

With  the  name  of  Thomas  Carlyle  we  become 
conscious  of  a  changed  atmosphere  in  literature. 
Taking  him  for  all  in  all,  he  is  the  most  representa- 
tive, and  by  far  the  greatest,  man  of  genius  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  The  four  notes  of  genius  are 
originality,  fertility,  coherence,  and  articulation.  He 
is  so  far  original  in  style  and  method  that  there  is 
no  one  with  whom  we  can  justly  compare  him.  He 
followed  no  master,  and  acknowledged  none;  his 
angle  of  vision  on  all  questions  was  his  own,  and 
what  he  saw  he  expressed  in  a  fashion  which  decorous 
literary  persons  of  the  old  order  felt  to  be  dazzingly 
perverse,  startling,  eruptive,  and  even  outrageous. 
His  mind  was  also  one  of  the  most  fertile  of  minds  ; 
not  so  much  in  the  matter  of  industrious  production 
as  in   the   much    rarer    function   of  begetting  great 

169 


170  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

seminal  ideas,  which  reproduced  themselves  over 
the  entire  area  of  modern  literature.  Coherence 
marks  these  ideas,  for  the  main  principles  of  his 
philosophy  are  so  simple  and  so  definite,  that  from 
his  earliest  writings  to  his  last  there  is  perfect  unity. 
Lastly,  in  the  matter  of  articulation  or  expression, 
he  is  supreme.  He  enlarged  the  potentialities  of 
language,  as  every  great  literary  artist  does,  and  in 
precision,  splendour,  and  suggestiveness  of  phrase 
stands  unapproached. 

But  Carlyle  was  much  more  even  than  a  great  man 
of  genius,  or  a  great  writer.  He  never  conceived 
himself,  nor  did  any  one  who  knew  him  intimately 
conceive  him,  as  having  found  a  sufficing  expres- 
sion of  himself  in  his  writings.  He  knew  himself, 
and  was  felt  by  others,  to  be  a  great  spiritual  force. 
Criticism  has  had  much  to  say  upon  the  strangeness 
and  mass  of  his  genius  ;  it  has  hardly  yet  appre- 
hended aright  his  prophetic  force.  That  he  brought 
into  English  literature  much  that  is  startling  and 
brilliant  in  style  is  the  least  part  of  the  matter ;  he 
brought  also  a  flaming  vehemence  of  thought,  passion, 
and  conviction,  which  is  unique.  Goethe,  with  his 
piercing  insight,  was  the  first  to  recognise  the  true 
nature  of  the  man.  He  discovered  Carlyle  long 
before  England  had  heard  of  him,  when  he  was 
simply  an  unknown  and  eccentric  young  Scotsman, 
who  found  astonishing  difficulty  in  earning  daily  bread. 
The  great  German  incontinently  brushed  aside,  as 
of  relative  unimportance,  all  questions  about  his 
genius,  and  touched  the  true  core  of  the  man  and  his 
message,  when  he  said  that  Carlyle  was  '  a  new  moral 
force,  the  extent  and  effects  of  which  it  is  impossible 
to  predict'     In  other  words,  Goethe  recognised  the 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  171 

main    fact   about   him,  which   was   that   by   nature, 
temperament,  and  vocation,  he  was  a  prophet. 

If  Carlyle  had  been  asked  to  state  what  he 
understood  by  the  word  '  prophet,'  he  would  have 
laid  emphasis  upon  two  things :  clearness  and 
vividness  of  vision  in  the  apprehension  of  truth, 
and  resolute  sincerity  in  acting  on  it.  Carlyle  held 
that  there  is  within  every  man  something  akin  to 
the  Daemon  of  Socrates — intuition,  spiritual  appre- 
hension, a  living  monitor  and  guide;  and  that  the 
man  who  obeys  this  inward  voice  knows  by  a  species 
of  celestial  divination  where  his  path  lies,  and  what 
his  true  work  is.  In  nothing  does  the  essentially  pro- 
phetic nature  of  Carlyle  appear  more  plainly  than  in 
these  qualities.  During  the  first  forty  years  of  his  life, 
forty  years  spent  in  the  desert  of  the  sorest  discipline 
a  man  could  suffer,  there  was  no  moment  when  he 
might  not  have  instantly  improved  his  position  by 
a  little  judicious  compromise.  But  all  compromise 
he  regarded  with  scornful  anger.  He  might  have 
entered  the  Church,  and  his  spiritual  gifts  were 
vastly  in  excess  of  those  of  thousands  who  find  in 
the  pulpit  an  honourable  opportunity  of  utterance. 
Pie  might  have  obtained  a  professorship  in  one  or 
other  of  the  Scotch  seats  of  learning,  if  he  had  cared 
to  trim  his  course  to  suit  the  winds  and  tides  of  the 
ordinary  conventions.  He  might  at  any  moment 
have  earned  an  excellent  competence  by  his  pen, 
if  he  had  consented  to  modify  the  ruggedness  of  his 
style  and  the  violence  of  his  opinions  to  the 
standards  of  the  review  editors  and  their  readers. 
But  in  either  of  these  courses  he  recognised  a  fatal 
peril  to  his  sincerity.  Poor  as  he  was,  he  would  not 
budge  an  inch.     He  was  fastidious  to  what  seemed 


172  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

to  men  like  Jeffrey  an  absolutely  absurd  degree  over 
the  honour  of  his  independence.  He  would  make 
no  hair's-breadth  advance  to  meet  the  world  ;  the 
world  must  come  over  to  him,  bag  and  baggage. 
He  acted  with  implicit  obedience  on  his  intuition. 
He  had  the  prophet's  stern  simplicity  of  habit.  He 
cared  nothing  for  comfort  or  success ;  and  when  at 
last  success  came,  his  Spartan  simplicity  of  life 
suffered  no  change.  If  ever  man  in  modern  days 
knew  what  the  burden  of  prophecy  meant,  what  it 
is  to  be  impelled  to  utterance  by  an  imperious 
instinct  for  truth,  and  to  be  straitened  in  spirit  till 
the  message  was  spoken,  that  man  was  Carlyle.  It 
was  in  this  respect  that  he  differed  as  much  from 
the  ordinary  man  of  letters  as  Isaiah  in  his  most 
impassioned  moments  from  the  common  sermon- 
writer.  The  pulpit,  the  bar,  the  professor's  chair 
were  not  for  him  ;  therefore  he  seized  upon  pen  and 
paper  as  the  only  means  left  of  uttering  himself  to 
his  age.  He  was  perfectly  sincere  in  despising  even 
this  as  a  medium  for  his  spiritual  activities.  He 
despised  writing  as  a  profession,  because  he  found 
that  when  men  began  to  write  for  bread  they  became 
poor  creatures,  and  if  they  had  any  real  message  in 
them  they  stifled  it  to  win  praise  or  money.  To 
both  praise  and  money  he  was  contemptuously  in- 
different. His  only  passion  was  a  passion  for  truth, 
and  to  speak  this  with  the  least  possible  of  those 
literary  flourishes  which  capture  popularity  was  his 
meat  and  drink. 

Further  than  this,  Carlyle  was  both  poet  and 
humorist.  He  could  not  indeed  write  verse.  He 
was  never  able  to  master  the  technicalities  of  the 
art  of  metre.     He  was  as  little  able  to  write  a  novel. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  173 


which  next  to  verse  affords  a  medium  for  the  man 
of  constructive  poetic  genius.  He  tried  both  arts, 
with  rare  and  partial  success  in  the  first,  and  abject 
failure  in  the  second.  Goethe,  who  is  the  only  man 
who  could  be  spoken  of  even  in  a  partial  sense  as 
Carlyle's  master,  had  a  serene  equipoise  of  faculty, 
a  fine  and  supreme  artistic  sense,  which  enabled 
him  to  succeed  equally  in  poetry,  drama,  fiction,  or 
philosophy.  Carlyle's  genius  was  as  remarkable  as 
Goethe's,  but  its  powers  lay  apart  in  streaming 
fire-masses,  nebulous  and  chaotic,  and  were  not 
co-ordinated  into  perfect  harmony  by  that  aesthetic 
sense  which  was  Goethe's  highest  gift.  But  funda- 
mentally he  was  a  poet,  and  among  the  greatest  of 
poets.  He  saw  everything  through  the  medium  of 
an  intense  and  searching  imagination.  No  one  could 
describe  the  impression  which  his  French  Revolution 
produces  on  the  mind  better  than  he  himself  has 
done,  when  he  says,  '  Nor  do  I  mean  to  investigate 
much  more  about  it,  but  to  splash  down  what  I 
know  in  large  masses  of  colours,  that  it  may  look 
like  a  smoke  and  flame  conflagration  in  the  distance, 
which  it  is.'  He  cannot  even  walk  in  Regent  Street 
without  exclaiming,  '  To  me,  through  these  thin  cob- 
webs, Death  and  Eternity  sate  glaring.'  All  his 
personal  sensations  are  magnified  into  the  same 
gigantic  proportions,  now  lurid,  now  grotesque,  by 
the  same  atmosphere  of  imagination  through  which 
they  are  perceived.  His  sensitiveness  is  extreme, 
poignant,  even  terrible.  When  he  talks  of  immen- 
sities and  eternities,  he  uses  no  mere  stock  phrases  ; 
he  hears  the  rushing  of  the  fire-streams,  and  the  rolling 
worlds  overhead,  as  he  hears  the  dark  streams  flow- 
ing under  foot,  bearing  man  and  all  his  brave  arrays 


174  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

down  to  '  Tartarus,  and  the  pale  kingdoms  of  Dis.' 
When  he  speaks  of  himself  as  feeling  '  spectral,'  he 
simply  expresses  that  sense  of  spiritual  loneliness, 
detachment,  and  mystery,  out  of  which  the  deepest 
poetry  of  the  world  has  come.  To  judge  such  a 
man  by  ordinary  prosaic  standards  is  impossible. 
He  is  of  imagination  all  compact,  and  his  writings 
can  only  be  rightly  regarded  as  the  work  of  a  poet, 
who  has  the  true  spirit  of  the  seer,  but  is  incapable 
of  the  orthodox  forms  of  poetry. 

It  is  perhaps  even  more  essential  to  remember 
that  Carlyle  was  a  humorist  of  the  first  order.  On 
the  one  side  of  his  genius  he  approaches  Burns  ;  on 
the  other,  Swift.  He  shares  with  Burns  a  rugged 
independence  of  nature,  native  pride,  a  sense  of  the 
elemental  in  human  life,  a  power  of  poignant  realism, 
a  rare  depth  and  delicacy  of  sentiment ;  he  shares  also 
with  him  the  rollicking,  broad,  not  always  decorous, 
humour  of  the  Olympian  peasant,  racy  of  the  soil. 
Carlyle's  account  of  Carnot  suddenly  leaving  the 
dinner-table  '  driven  by  a  necessity,  needing  of  all 
things  paper,'  is  a  sample  of  what  I  mean  ;  the  humour 
of  the  peasant,  half-grim,  half-boisterous,  of  which 
Burns  has  given  imperishable  examples  in  Tarn  o' 
Shanter  and  Holy  Willie's  Prayer.  But  there  was  also 
mingled  in  Carlyle's  humour  a  strain  of  something 
darker  and  more  subtle,  akin  to  the  saturnine  humour 
of  Swift.  He  has  much  of  that  intense  and  scathing 
scorn,  that  sardonic  and  bitter  penetration  which 
made,  and  still  preserves,  the  name  of  Swift  as  a 
name  of  terror.  To  be  sure,  we  do  not  find  that 
depth  of  silent  ferocity  in  Carlyle  which  alarms  and 
appals  us  in  Swift.  Swift  often  thought  and  wrote 
like  a  mere  savage,  smarting  with  the  torture  of  some 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  175 

lacerating,  cureless  pain.  He  is  at  heart  a  hater  of 
his  kind,  who  spits  in  the  face  of  its  most  familiar 
nobilities,  out  of  mere  exasperated  truculence.  There 
is  something  abominable  and  insane  in  the  humour 
of  Swift,  with  only  a  rare  touch  of  redeeming  geni- 
ality. But  Carlyle's  humour,  in  all  its  sardonic  force, 
still  preserves  an  element  of  geniality.  He  loves 
the  grotesque  and  the  absurd  for  their  own  sakes. 
He  cannot  long  restrain  himself  from  laughter,  good, 
wholesome,  volleying  laughter,  directed  as  often 
against  himself  as  others.  Gifts  of  insight,  passion, 
eloquence,  and  imagination  he  had  in  plenty ;  but 
the  greatest  and  rarest  of  all  his  gifts  was  humour. 

Those  who  knew  Carlyle  most  intimately  have 
all  recognised  this  wonderful  gift  of  humour  which 
was  his.  It  was  said  of  him  by  his  friends  that 
when  he  laughed  it  was  Homeric  laughter — the 
laughter  of  the  whole  soul  and  body  in  complete 
abandonment  of  mirth.  This  deep,  wholesome 
laughter  reverberates  through  his  writings.  No  man 
is  quicker  to  catch  a  humorous  point,  or  to  make  it. 
A  collection  of  Carlyle's  best  stories,  phrases,  and 
bits  of  personal  description,  would  make  one  of  the 
most  humorous  books  in  the  language.  He  makes 
sly  fun  of  himself,  of  his  poverty,  of  the  unconscious 
oddities  of  the  obscurest  people,  and  equally  of  the 
greatest.  His  raillery  is  incessant,  his  eye  for  the 
comic  of  supreme  vigilance.  Of  the  obscenity  of 
Swift  there  is  no  trace  ;  it  was  not  in  Carlyle  to 
cherish  unwholesome  thoughts.  But  in  the  strange 
mingling  of  the  wildest  fun  with  the  most  penetrat- 
ing thought,  of  sardonic  bitterness  with  the  mellowest 
laughter,  of  the  most  daring  and  incisive  irony  with 
deep  philosophy  and  serious  feeling,  there  is  much 


176  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

that  recalls  Swift,  and  suggests  his  finest  qualities. 
With  Swift  the  bitterness  closed  down  like  a  cloud, 
and  extinguished  the  humour,  with  the  result  of  that 
tragic  madness  which  still  moves  the  pity  of  the 
world.  With  Carlyle  the  humour  was  always  in 
excess  of  the  bitterness,  and  supplied  that  element 
of  saving  health  which  kept  his  genius  fresh  and 
wholesome  amid  many  perils  not  less  real  than  those 
which  destroyed  Swift. 

There  is  one  respect  in  which  it  is  especially 
necessary  to  recollect  this  element  of  humour  in 
Carlyle,  if  we  are  to  judge  him  correctly,  because 
most  of  the  harsh  and  unfair  judgments  passed  upon 
him  have  directly  resulted  from  its  neglect.  It  must 
be  remembered  that  Mrs.  Carlyle  had  many  qualities 
in  common  with  her  husband,  and  not  the  least  of 
these  was  a  similar  power  of  irony  and  humour.  She 
was  accustomed  to  speak  of  Carlyle  in  a  fashion  of 
the  freest  banter.  When  his  lectures  were  first 
announced  in  London  there  was  much  speculation 
among  his  friends  whether  he  would  remember  to 
begin  orthodoxly  with  '  Ladies  and  gentlemen,'  to 
which  Mrs.  Carlyle  replied  that  it  was  far  more 
likely  he  would  begin  with  '  Fool  creatures  come 
hither  for  diversion.'  Her  satiric  comment  on  the 
success  of  the  business  was  that  at  last  the  public 
had  apparently  decided  that  he  was  a  man  of  genius, 
and  '  worth  being  kept  alive  at  a  moderate  rate.'  Is 
it  not  conceivable  to  a  person  of  even  moderate 
intelligence  that  the  conversation  of  two  persons  so 
witty,  keen-tongued,  and  given  to  satiric  burlesque 
and  banter  as  the  Carlyles,  was  in  no  sense  to  be 
taken  literally?  Is  it  not  further  conceivable  that 
many  things  which  look  only  bitter  when  put  into 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  177 


print,  had  a  very  different  effect  and  intention  when 
uttered  in  the  gay  repartee  of  familiar  conversation  ? 
The  fact  is  that  the  Carlyles  habitually  addressed 
one  another  with  irony.  It  is  no  uncommon  thing 
between  intimates  :  it  is  rather  a  sign  of  the  security 
of  the  affection  which  unites  them.  But  if,  by  some 
unhappy  accident,  a  third  person  who  has  no  sense 
of  humour  hears  this  gay  clash  of  keen  words,  and 
puts  them  down  in  dull  print,  and  goes  on  to  point 
out  in  his  dull  fashion  that  they  do  not  sound 
affectionate,  and  are  phrases  by  no  means  in  common 
use  among  excellent  married  persons  of  average 
intellects,  it  is  easy  to  see  that  the  worst  sort  of 
mischief  may  readily  be  wrought.  Thus,  for  example, 
when  Mrs.  Carlyle  lay  ill  with  a  nervous  trouble 
which  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  close  her  mouth, 
Carlyle,  who  knew  nothing  of  this  peculiarity  of 
her  disease,  stood  solemnly  at  the  foot  of  her  bed 
one  day,  and  said:  'Jane,  ye 'd  be  in  a  far  more 
composed  state  of  mind  if  ye  'd  close  your  mouth.' 
This  story  is  told,  forsooth,  as  an  illustration  of  the 
harshness  of  Carlyle  to  his  wife.  So  far  was  Mrs. 
Carlyle  from  interpreting  it  in  any  such  way,  that 
she  tells  it  herself  with  inimitable  glee,  and  is  keen 
to  describe  its  ludicrous  aspect.  And,  as  in  this 
instance,  so  in  a  hundred  more  that  might  be 
analysed,  humour  was  a  dominant  quality  in  all  the 
conversations  of  Carlyle,  and  in  almost  equal  degree 
of  his  wife's  also  ;  and  it  is  only  by  recollecting  this 
that  it  is  possible  to  judge  rightly  a  married  life 
which  was  passed  in  an  atmosphere  and  under 
conditions  peculiarly  its  own. 

It  is  necessary  to  dwell  on  this  matter  with  more 
fulness    than    it  deserves,   because    nothing   has   so 

M 


178  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

greatly  injured  Carlyle's  reputation  and  influence  as 
the  reported  infelicities  of  his  domestic  life.  All 
these  reports  depend  on  the  testimony  of  one  or  two 
witnesses,  whose  word  is  worthless.  Fortunately  for 
us  the  real  truth  is  preserved,  not  in  the  chance 
impressions  of  friends  or  guests  who  saw  the  Carlyles 
from  the  outside,  but  in  the  mutual  correspondence 
of  husband  and  wife,  in  their  journals,  and  in  their 
intimate  confessions  to  others  through  a  long  range 
of  years.  There  have  been  many  exquisite  love- 
letters  written  by  literary  men,  but  there  are  none  to 
surpass  Carlyle's  letters  to  his  wife.  No  woman  was 
ever  loved  more  deeply  :  had  not  the  love  on  both 
sides  been  real  and  vital  there  would  have  been  no 
tragedy  to  record.  It  was  simply  because  these  two 
were  so  much  to  each  other  that  the  slightest  varia- 
tion of  temperature  in  their  affection  was  so  keenly 
and  instantaneously  felt  by  each.  The  real  source 
of  their  difficulties  was  that  they  were  too  much 
alike  in  temper,  in  methods  of  thought,  and  in 
intellectual  outlook.  There  was  about  each  that 
difficult  Scottish  reticence  which  sealed  the  lips  and 
forbade  speech  even  when  the  heart  was  fullest. 
The  moment  they  are  separated  the  love-letters  flow 
in  a  continuous  stream :  love-letters,  as  I  have  said, 
which  are  the  tenderest  in  the  language  so  far  as 
Carlyle  is  concerned,  and  which  never  lost  their 
warmth  through  all  the  years  of  a  long  married  life. 
On  paper  the  heart  opens  itself;  face  to  face  they 
cannot  speak.  As  they  recede  from  one  another 
each  grows  in  luminous  charm,  and  faults  are  for- 
gotten, and  passion  is  intensified ;  as  they  come 
back  from  these  constant  separations  the  glow  fades 
into  the  light  of  common  day,  and  neither  has  the 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  179 

tact  or  grace  to  retain  it.  Each  is  exquisitely,  even 
poignantly  sensitive,  and  gives  and  suffers  wounds 
which  are  totally  unsuspected  by  the  other.  The 
heart  is  always  at  boiling-point ;  the  nerves  are 
always  quivering ;  there  are  no  cool  grey  reaches  of 
mere  pleasant  comradeship  between  them.  It  is  not 
difficult  to  understand  that  in  such  a  marriage  there 
were  hours  of  the  deepest  blackness  ;  but  there  were 
also  seasons  of-  such  light  and  radiance  as  are  never 
found  in  duller  lives. 

But  there  was  another  cause  of  bitterness,  which 
Carlyle  has  touched  with  the  utmost  delicacy  and 
insight  when  he  writes  (Aug.  24,  1836):  'Oh.  my 
poor  bairn,  be  not  faithless,  but  believing !  Do 
not  fling  life  away  as  insupportable,  despicable  ; 
but  let  us  work  it  out,  and  rest  it  out  together, 
like  a  true  two,  though  under  some  obstructions.' 
One  would  have  supposed  that  Carlyle  would  have 
written  'a  true  one' ;  but  that  he  had  ceased  to 
hope  for.  Mrs.  Carlyle's  nature  was  of  a  stubborn- 
ness as  invincible  as  his  own,  and  was  as  deeply 
independent  and  original.  It  galled  her  to  shine 
only  in  Carlyle's  light.  She  had  a  literary  faculty, 
in  its  way  as  remarkable  as  her  husband's,  and 
she  felt  that  it  was  obscured  by  his  more  massive 
genius.  She  was  not  the  sort  of  woman  to  find 
her  life  in  the  life  of  any  man  ;  she  craved  a  sepa- 
rate platform.  What  Carlyle  could  do  to  soften  and 
ease  matters  he  did.  He  absolutely  refused  all  invi- 
tations to  great  houses  where  his  wife  was  not  as 
welcome  as  himself.  He  sincerely  believed  her  to 
be  the  cleverest  and  best  of  women,  who  deserved 
distinction  for  her  own  sake.  But  it  was  all  of  no 
avail.     She  allowed  herself  to  become  frantic  with 


i  So  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

jealousy,  and  absolutely  without  cause.  Her  tongue 
could  be  as  satiric,  as  undiscriminating,  as  his.  For 
the  most  part  she  used  that  potent  instrument, 
as  Dr.  Garnet  says  (a  little  unjustly,  I  think),  'to 
narrow  his  sympathies,  edge  his  sarcasms,  intensify 
his  negations,  and  foster  his  disdain  for  whatever 
would  not  run  in  his  own  groove.'  When  it  was 
turned  against  him  one  can  imagine  the  result. 
That  which  strikes  one  most  in  reading  the  story  is 
that  all  the  bitterness  between  them  might  have 
been  avoided  by  a  little  tact,  a  little  common  sense. 
But  in  these  qualities  each  was  deficient.  Each  was 
accustomed  to  see  life  through  the  atmosphere  of  an 
imagination  which  exaggerated  into  grotesqueness 
or  tragedy  the  simplest  things.  Each  felt  the  least 
jar  upon  the  nerves  as  a  veritable  agony.  Life  was 
unquestionably  hard  enough  for  them  in  any  case,  but 
this  intense  sensitiveness  made  it  tenfold  harder. 

Yet,  when  all  these  admissions  are  made,  we 
should  take  an  altogether  wrong  impression  if  we 
supposed  that  these  disagreements  were  normal  and 
continuous.  Not  merely  does  Mrs.  Carlyle's  real 
love  for  Carlyle  come  out  in  so  many  direct  and 
positive  expressions,  but  it  is  admirably  reflected  in 
her  humour.  There  may  be  wit,  but  there  cannot 
be  humour,  without  love,  and  the  way  in  which  she 
permits  her  bright  and  vivacious  humour  to  play 
round  him  in  her  letters  reveals  not  merely  her 
genius  but  her  heart.  He  is  her  'poor  Babe  of 
Genius.'  '  Between  two  and  three  o'clock  is  a  very 
placid  hour  with  the  creature.'  '  He  never  complains 
of  serious  things,  but  if  his  finger  is  cut,  one  must 
hold  it  and  another  get  plaister.'  On  the  New  Year 
morning  of  1863,   Carlyle  no  sooner  gets  up  than 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  181 

he  discovers  'that  his  salvation,  here  and  here- 
after, depended  on  having  "immediately,  without  a 
moment's  delay,"  a  beggarly  pair  of  old  cloth  boots 
that  the  street-sweeper  would  hardly  have  thanked 
him  for,  "  lined  with  flannel,  and  new  bound,  and 
repaired  generally.'"  'Nothing  in  the  shape  of  ill- 
ness ever  alarms  Mr.  C.  but  that  of  not  eating  one's 
regular  meals.'  She  relates  with  positive  glee,  and 
in  the  spirit  of  the  brightest  banter,  innumerable 
episodes  in  which  '  the  creature '  performs  some 
eccentric  part ;  and  often  enough,  as  Mr.  Moncure 
Conway  has  told  us,  these  little  pieces  of  inimitable 
farce  were  performed  in  Carlyle's  presence,  and  to 
his  own  infinite  amusement.  There  is  always  a 
certain  soupqon  of  bitterness  in  the  banter,  but  it  is 
a  pleasant  and  not  a  corrosive  bitter.  She  knew 
exactly  where  the  trouble  was  between  them  ;  she 
knew  that  when  Carlyle  was  exhausted  with  his 
immense  labours,  and  she  worn  to  the  nerve  with 
neuralgia,  sleeplessness,  and  domestic  worries,  each 
was  apt  to  rub  the  other  the  wrong  way,  and  to 
magnify  unintended  slights  into  mischievous  offences. 
She  knew  it,  and  was  sorry  for  it,  and  would  have 
avoided  it  if  she  could.  '  Alas,  dear  ! '  she  writes,  '  I 
am  very  sorry  for  you.  You,  as  well  as  I,  are  too 
vivid  ;  to  you  as  well  as  me  has  a  skin  been  given 
much  too  thin  for  the  rough  purposes  of  human  life 
— God  knows  how  gladly  I  would  be  sweet-tempered, 
and  cheerful-hearted,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  for 
your  single  sake,  if  my  temper  were  not  soured  and 
my  heart  saddened  beyond  my  power  to  mend  them.' 
But  though  she  could  be  neither  sweet-tempered  nor 
cheerful,  she  was  always  brave,  bright,  and  sensitive 
to  the  humorous  aspect  of  things.     Upon  the  whole, 


1 82  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

one  may  doubt  if  any  braver  woman  ever  lived : 
Joan  of  Arc  in  her  glittering  armour  was  no  more 
of  a  heroine  than  Mrs.  Carlyle  in  that  small  dominion 
at  Cheyne  Row,  in  her  endless  strifes  with  servants 
and  mechanics,  her  resolute  sorties  on  the  wolf  of 
poverty  that  for  so  many  years  growled  at  the  door, 
and  her  desperate  ingenuities  to  make  the  path  easy 
for  her  poor  '  Babe  of  Genius.' 

The  actual  amount  of  physical  and  nervous  suffer- 
ing which  Mrs.  Carlyle  endured  during  these  years, 
and  especially  towards  the  end,  exceeds  the  total 
of  the  worst  agony  of  those  we  call  martyrs.  What 
sadder  or  more  poignant  cries  have  ever  been  wrung 
from  a  human  spirit  than  these?  'Oh,  my  own 
darling,  God  have  pity  on  us !  Ever  since  the  day 
after  you  left,  whatever  flattering  accounts  may  have 
been  sent  you,  the  truth  is  I  have  been  wretched — 
perfectly  wretched  day  and  night,  with  that  horrible 
malady.  So,  God  help  me,  for  on  earth  is  no  help  ! ' 
'  Oh,  my  dear,  I  think  how  near  my  mother  I  am ! ' 
[She  was  then  staying  at  Holm  Hill,  not  far  from 
where  her  mother  was  buried.]  '  How  still  I  should 
be,  laid  beside  her !  But  I  wish  to  live  for  you,  if 
only  I  could  live  out  of  torment.  ...  I  seem  already 
to  belong  to  the  passed-away  as  much  as  to  the 
present ;  nay,  more.  God  bless  you  on  your  solitary 
way !  .  .  .  Oh,  my  dear,  I  am  very  weary.  My 
agony  has  lasted  long.  I  am  tempted  to  take  a 
long  cry  over  myself — and  no  good  will  come  of 
that'  She  expresses  her  sorrow  for  'the  terrible, 
half-insane  sensitiveness  which  drove  me  on  to 
bothering  you.  Oh,  if  God  would  only  lift  my 
trouble  off  me  so  far  that  I  could  bear  it  all  in 
silence,  and  not  add  to  the  troubles  of  others !  .  .  . 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  183 

I  am  very  stupid  and  low.  God  can  raise  me  up 
again  :  but  will  He  ?  My  dear,  when  I  have  been 
giving  directions  about  the  house,  then  a  feeling 
like  a  great  black  wave  will  roll  over  my  breast, 
and  I  say  to  myself,  whatever  pains  be  taken  to 
gratify  me,  shall  I  ever  more  have  a  day  of  ease, 
of  painlessness,  or  a  night  of  sweet  rest  in  that  house, 
or  in  any  other  house,  but  the  dark  narrow  one 
where  I  shall  arrive  at  last?  Oh,  dear!  you  cannot 
help  me,  though  you  would  !  Nobody  can  help  me ! 
Only  God  :  and  can  I  wonder  if  God  take  no  heed 
of  me,  when  I  have  all  my  life  taken  so  little  heed 
of  Him  ? '  Nor  are  the  replies  of  Carlyle  less 
pathetic.  '  My  thoughts,'  says  he,  '  are  a  prayer  for 
my  poor  little  life-partner,  who  has  fallen  lame 
beside  me,  after  travelling  so  many  steep  and  thorny 
ways.  .  .  .  My  poor  little  friend  of  friends !  she  has 
fallen  wounded  to  the  ground,  and  I  am  alone — 
alone!'  In  her  worst  agonies  she  turns  to  her 
husband  always  with  cries  for  consolation,  and  says : 
'  I  cannot  tell  how  gentle  and  good  Mr.  Carlyle  is. 
He  is  busy  as  ever,  but  he  studies  my  comfort  and 
peace  as  he  never  did  before.'  At  the  same  time 
he  is  taking  sorrowful  note  of  the  fact  that  she  is 
more  careful  of  his  comforts  than  in  her  busiest  days 
of  health.  Is  there  anywhere  in  literature  a  more 
pathetic  page  than  this  ?  Can  there  be  any  clearer 
testimony  to  the  reality  and  depth  of  that  love  which 
bound  these  two  sorely-tried  souls  together,  or  to 
the  error  of  the  general  assumption  that  their 
marriage  was  a  foolish  and  unhappy  one? 

Pages  might  be  written  on  such  a  theme,  but  all 
that  can  be  said  profitably  is  said  when  we  are  asked 
to  recollect  the  extreme  and  almost  morbid  sensitive- 


1 84  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

ness  of  both  Carlyle  and  his  wife,  their  common 
love  of  irony,  their  common  practice  of  humorous 
exaggeration  on  all  subjects,  but  especially  those  in 
which  their  own  personalities  were  involved,  and  the 
strain  upon  nerve  and  temper  which  was  imposed 
by  years  of  unintermittent  labour  and  vain  struggle. 
One  thing  is  at  least  clear,  that  in  their  more  serious 
misunderstandings  they  were  neither  in  thought  nor 
deed  unfaithful  to  one  another,  and  never  ceased  to 
love  each  other  with  absorbing  passion.  Of  the  dull, 
truculent,  selfish  brutality  of  temper  attributed  to 
Carlyle  by  some  writers,  he  was  utterly  incapable, 
for  he  was  the  most  magnanimous  of  men.  '  I  could 
not  help,'  says  Emerson,  on  recalling  his  memorable 
visit  to  Carlyle  at  Craigenputtock,  'congratulating 
him  upon  his  treasure  of  a  wife.'  Others  who  visited 
the  Carlyles  during  this  same  period,  when  life  was 
hardest  with  them,  have  borne  witness  that  they 
lived  with  one  another  upon  delightful  terms.  Surely, 
if  some  bitter  words  escaped  them  in  the  long  struggle, 
it  is  a  matter  not  for  wonder  but  forgiveness  ;  surely 
also  some  allowance  can  be  made  for  a  man  of 
genius  staggering  beneath  a  burden  almost  too  great 
to  be  borne,  and  for  a  woman  broken  in  health  by  a 
most  distressing  malady,  each  of  them,  as  Mrs. 
Carlyle  confessed,  '  too  vivid,'  and  '  with  a  skin  much 
too  thin  for  the  rough  purposes  of  human  life.' 
When  the  unwholesome  love  of  scandal,  aroused  by 
the  passion  which  mean  natures  find  in  discovering 
the  faults  of  the  great,  subsides,  no  doubt  the  true 
facts  will  be  seen  in  their  right  perspective,  and 
blame  will  be  exchanged  for  pity,  censure  for  a  com- 
prehending charity. 

In  the  meantime  we  may    remember  that  those 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  185 

who  knew  Carlyle  the  best  speak  most  warmly  of 
the  magnanimity  of  his  character. 

The  impression  which  Carlyle  made  upon  his 
contemporaries  is  the  best  comment  on  his  character. 
The  most  serious  men  of  his  time  recognised  him 
as  a  modern  John  the  Baptist,  and  even  a  worldly 
ecclesiastic  like  Bishop  Wilberforce  described  him  as 
'a  most  eminently  religious  man.'  Charles  Kingsley 
honoured  him  as  his  master,  and  has  drawn  an 
admirable  portrait  of  him  as  Saunders  Mackaye  in 
Alton  Locke,  of  which  description  Carlyle  character- 
istically said  that  it  was  a  'wonderfully  splendid  and 
coherent  piece  of  Scotch  bravura.'  His  gospel  is 
contained  in  Sartor  Resartus,  of  which  it  has  been 
pertinently  said  that  it  'will  be  read  as  a  gospel  or 
not  at  all.'  A  calm  and  penetrative  critic  like 
James  Martineau  witnesses  to  the  same  overwhelm- 
ing religious  force  in  Carlyle  when  he  speaks  of  his 
writings  as  a  '  pentecostal  power  on  the  sentiments 
of  Englishmen.'  On  the  truly  poetic  nature  of  his 
genius  all  the  great  critics  have  long  ago  agreed. 
How  could  it  be  otherwise  in  regard  of  writings 
whose  every  second  paragraph  kindles  into  the  finest 
imaginative  fire  ?  His  power  of  imagery  is  Dan- 
tcsque ;  his  range  is  truly  epic  ;  the  very  phrases 
of  his  diaries  and  letters  are  steeped  in  poetry,  as 
when  he  speaks  of  John  Sterling's  last  '  verses, 
written  for  myself  alone,  as  in  star-fire  and  immortal 
tears.'  The  testimonies  to  his  power  of  humour,  so 
far  as  his  conversations  are  concerned,  are  much  too 
numerous  for  recapitulation.  His  own  definition  of 
humour  was  'a  genial  sympathy  with  the  under 
side '  ;  and  this  vivid  sympathy  expressed  itself  in 
his    use    of  ludicrous    and    extraordinary   metaphor, 


1 86  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

and  in  his  'delicate  sense  of  absurdity.'  His  most 
volcanic  denunciations  usually  'ended  in  a  laugh, 
the  heartiest  in  the  world,  at  his  own  ferocity. 
Those  who  have  not  heard  that  laugh,'  says  Mr. 
Allingham,  'will  never  know  what  Carlyle's  talk 
was.'  Prophet,  poet,  and  humorist — so  stands  Carlyle 
before  the  world,  a  man  roughly  hewn  out  of  the 
primeval  earth,  conceived  in  the  womb  of  labour  and 
hardship,  yet  touched  with  immortal  fire,  fashioned 
in  the  rarest  mould  of  greatness,  tenderness,  and 
heroism  ;  clearly  the  most  massive,  impressive,  and 
fascinating  figure  in  nineteenth-century  literature. 
It  remains  for  us  to  see  what  his  writings  teach  us, 
and  what  is  taught  yet  more  forcibly  by  the  epic 
of  his  life. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

CARLYLE'S   TEACHING 

MAURICE  once  said  of  himself  that  he  only  had  three 
or  four  things  to  say,  and  he  felt  it  necessary  to  go 
on  saying  them  over  and  over  again.  The  same 
criticism  might  be  passed  upon  Carlyle.  No  great 
writer  has  repeated  himself  with  such  freedom  and 
emphasis.  It  therefore  becomes  a  comparatively 
easy  task  to  discern  the  main  lines  of  his  teaching. 
In  whatever  he  wrote,  whether  history  or  essay, 
private  journals  or  biography,  these  main  lines  of 
thought  perpetually  appear,  like  auriferous  strata, 
pushing  themselves  up  through  the  soil,  and  indicat- 
ing the  nature  of  his  thinking. 

The  remark  of  Bishop  Wilberforce,  that  Carlyle  was 
an  eminently  religious  man,  gives  us  the  true  start- 
ing-point for  any  honest  understanding  of  his  teach- 
ing. Mr.  Froude  has  spoken  of  him  as  a  Calvinist 
without  the  theology,  and  in  the  main  this  is  true. 
Every  one  knows  the  striking  passage  in  which 
Carlyle  tells  us  how  Irving  drew  from  him  the 
confession  that  he  was  no  longer  able  to  see  the 
truths  of  religion  from  the  orthodox  standpoint. 
Upon  analysis  this  will  be  found  to  mean  that  he 
had  definitely  rejected  the  supernatural.  He  once 
said  that  nothing  could  be  more  certain  than  that 
the  miracles,  as  they  were  related  in  the  Gospels,  did 

137 


1 88  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

not  and  could  not  have  occurred.  For  the  Church, 
as  such,  he  had  small  respect,  because  it  seemed  to 
him  to  be  mainly  given  over  to  a  hollow  recitation 
of  formulae  which  it  had  really  ceased  to  believe,  and 
which  no  rational  man  ever  would  believe  again 
with  genuine  sincerity.  He  regarded  the  efforts  of 
Maurice  to  frame  a  rational  basis  for  belief  in  the 
supernatural  as  the  endless  spinning  of  a  rope  of 
sand.  He  once  pointed  to  Dean  Stanley,  and  said 
with  cutting  sarcasm,  '  There  goes  Stanley  knocking 
holes  in  the  bottom  of  the  Church  of  England.' 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  he  had  more  than  sarcasm, 
he  had  an  absolutely  savage  contempt  for  anything 
approaching  atheism.  Of  Mill  he  spoke  with  bitter 
and  habitual  ridicule,  although  he  recognised  in  him 
the  finest  friendliness  of  nature;  of  Darwin  'as 
though  he  had  robbed  him.'  He  dismissed  the  dis- 
coveries of  Darwin  with  the  scathing  phrase, '  Gorilla 
damnifications  of  humanity.'  He  speaks  of  his 
'whole  softened  heart 'going  out  anew  in  childlike 
utterance  of  the  great  prayer, '  Our  Father,  who  art 
in  heaven.'  While  he  cannot  believe  the  Gospel 
miracles,  he  nevertheless  teaches  that  the  world 
itself  is  nothing  less  than  one  vast  standing  miracle. 
No  saint  or  prophet  ever  spoke  with  a  surer  faith  of 
that  great  Yonder,  to  which  he  believes  his  father  is 
gathered,  and  where  he  and  all  whom  he  loves  will 
some  day  be  reunited  in  some  new  intimacy  of 
infinite  love.  He  scruples  even  to  use  the  name  of 
God,  inventing  paraphrases  of  it  because  he  feels  it 
is  too  great  and  holy  for  common  utterance.  A 
profound  belief  in  Providence  governed  all  his 
estimates  of  life,  and  prayer  was  with  him  a  habit 
and  an  urgent  duty,  since  it  was  the  lifting  up  of  the 


CARLYLE' S  TEACHING  189 

heart  to  the  Infinite  above,  which  answered  to  the 
Infinite  within. 

Now  nothing  can  well  appear  more  contradictory 
than  these  statements,  and  they  can  only  be  har- 
monised by  the  recollection  of  one  fact — viz.  that 
in    Carlyle   emotion   outran    reason,  and    what  was 
impossible    to    the    pure    intellect   was    constantly 
accepted  on  the  testimony  of  his  spiritual  intuitions. 
The   merely  theological    conclusions   of   Calvin   he 
absolutely  rejected,   but   the    essence   of  Calvinism 
ran  like  a  subtle  spirit,  through  his  whole  nature. 
What  he  really  aimed  at  was  to  show  that  religion 
rested  on  no  external  evidences  at  all,  but  on  the 
indubitable  intuitions  of  the  human  soul.    He  would 
not  even  take  the  trouble  to  set  about  proving  that 
there  was  a  God  :  he  would  have  agreed  with  Addi- 
son that  the  man  who  said  that  he  did  not  believe 
in  a  God  was  an  impudent  liar  and  knew  it.      He 
was  angrily  contemptuous  of  Renan's  Life  of  fesus, 
although  Renan  probably  said  nothing  more  than  he 
himself  believed  ;  but  he  felt  a  reverence  for  Christ 
which  revolted  from  Renan's  method  of  statement, 
and  he  said  that  his  life  of  Christ  was  something 
that   never   ought   to   be   written   at   all.      Thus   it 
becomes   more    necessary   with    Carlyle    than    with 
any  other  writer  of  our  time  to  distinguish  sharply 
between  his  opinions  and  his  convictions.     In  point 
of  fact  he  wrote  on  religion,  as  on  all  other  subjects, 
from  the  standpoint  of  the  poet  rather  than  of  the 
scholar  or  the  philosopher.     Driven  back  upon  his 
defences,  Calvin  himself  could  not  have  spoken  with 
more  lucidity  and  passion  of  his  primary  religious 
beliefs  than   Carlyle.     The  Shorter  Catechism  had 
passed    into   the    very    blood    and    marrow   of    his 


i go  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 


nature.  In  the  bare  house  at  Ecclefechan  the 
Cottar's  Saturday  Night  was  a  veritable  fact,  and 
from  the  Puritan  mould  of  his  childhood  he  never 
escaped.  He  never  wished  to  do  so.  He  sought 
rather  to  distil  the  finer  essences  of  Calvinism 
afresh,  and  in  a  great  measure  he  did  so.  His  real 
creed  was  Calvinism  shorn  of  its  logic  and  inter- 
penetrated with  emotion.  He  translated  it  into 
poetry  and  touched  it  with  the  iridescent  glow  and 
colour  of  transcendentalism.  He  separated  what 
he  considered  its  accidental  and  formal  elements 
from  the  essential,  and  to  those  essential  and  im- 
perishable elements  he  gave  a  new  authority  and 
currency  by  the  impact  of  his  own  astonishing 
genius. 

What  were  these  elements?  As  restated  by 
Carlyle,  they  were  belief  in  God  as  the  certainty 
of  certainties  on  which  all  human  life  is  built :  of 
a  God  working  in  history,  and  revealing  Himself  in 
no  mere  collection  of  books,  but  in  all  events  :  of  all 
work  as  perenially  noble  and  beautiful,  because  it 
was  God's  appointed  task  :  of  duty  and  morality  as 
the  only  real  prerogatives  of  man  :  of  sincerity  and 
honesty  as  the  chief  achievements  which  God  de- 
manded of  man,  and  the  irreducible  minimum  of 
any  honourable  human  life.  The  world  was  no 
mere  mill,  turning  its  wheels  mechanically  in  the 
Time-floods,  without  any  Overseer,  but  a  Divinely 
appointed  world,  and  to  know  that  was  the  chief 
element  of  all  knowledge.  Man  was  not  a  mechan- 
ism but  an  organism ;  not  a  '  patent  digesting 
machine,'  but  a  divinely-fashioned  creature.  The 
everlasting  Yea  was  to  admit  this ;  the  everlasting 
No  to  deny  it.     '  On  the  roaring  billows  of  Time 


CARLYLE'S  TEACHING  191 

thou  art  not  engulfed,  but  borne  aloft  into  the  azure 
of  Eternity.  Love  not  pleasure :  love  God.  This 
is  the  everlasting  Yea,  wherein  all  contradiction  is 
solved,  wherein  whoso  walks  and  works  it  is  well 
with  him.  Even  to  the  greatest  that  has  felt  such 
moment,  is  it  not  miraculous  and  God-announcing, 
even  as  under  simpler  figures  to  the  simplest  and  the 
least.  The  mad  primeval  Discord  is  hushed ;  the 
rudely  jumbled  conflicting  elements  bind  themselves 
into  separate  firmaments ;  deep,  silent  rock-founda- 
tions are  built  beneath  ;  and  the  skyey  vault  with  its 
everlasting  luminaries  above ;  instead  of  a  dark, 
wasteful  Chaos,  we  have  a  blooming,  fertile,  heaven- 
encompassed  World.' 

To  believe  this,  according  to  Carlyle,  implied  a 
species  of  conversion,  and  of  his  own  conversion, 
when  these  things  suddenly  became  real  to  him  one 
night  in  Leith  Walk,  he  has  left  as  circumstantial 
an  account  as  we  have  of  the  conversion  of  Luther 
or  Wesley.  What  it  implies  is,  in  effect,  a  certain 
reconciliation  to  God,  to  the  world,  and  to  one's  self. 
Carlyle's  intense  sympathy  with  Cromwell,  which 
has  made  him  his  best  biographer,  arises  from  the 
fact  that  he  found  in  Cromwell  an  echo  of  his  own 
thoughts,  and  a  picture  of  his  own  experiences. 
When  Cromwell  said,  '  What  are  all  events  but  God 
working?'  we  readily  feel  that  the  very  accent  of 
the  thought  is  Carlyle's.  When  Cromwell  steadies 
his  trembling  hand  and  says,  '  A  governor  should 
die  working,'  he  expresses  Carlyle's  gospel  of  work 
in  its  finest  form.  When  Cromwell  talks  of  dwelling 
in  Kedar  and  Meshech  where  no  water  is,  and  of 
passing  through  strange  hours  of  blackness  and 
darkness,  he  is  talking  entirely  after  the  manner  of 


192  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

Carlyle.  After  that  memorable  experience  in  Leith 
Walk,  Carlyle  tells  us,  his  mood  was  no  longer 
despondence,  but  valorous  defiance.  The  world,  at 
least,  had  no  further  power  to  hurt  or  hinder  him  : 
is  he  not  now  sure  that  he  lives  and  moves  at  the 
bidding  of  a  Divine  Taskmaster?  Long  afterwards, 
when  his  first  draft  of  the  Fretick  Revolution  was 
burned,  this  faith  in  the  mystery  of  God's  ordering 
was  his  one  source  of  solace.  '  It  is  as  if  my  invisible 
Schoolmaster  had  torn  my  copy-book  when  I  showed 
it,  and  said,  "No,  boy!  thou  must  write  it  better." 
What  can  I,  sorrowing,  do  but  obey — obey  and 
think  it  the  best  ?  To  work  again ;  and  oh !  may 
God  be  with  me,  for  this  earth  is  not  friendly.  On 
in  His  name !  I  was  the  nearest  being  happy  some- 
times these  last  few  days  that  I  have  been  for 
months!'  To  be  reconciled  to  himself  meant  in 
such  circumstances  that  he  was  willing  to  work,  even 
if  nothing  came  of  his  work,  since  work  in  itself 
was  the  appointed  duty  and  true  glory  of  man. 
'  Produce  !  Produce  !  were  it  but  the  pitifullest  infini- 
tesimal fraction  of  a  product,  produce  it,  in  God's 
name.  'Tis  the  utmost  thou  hast  in  thee :  out  with 
it,  then.  Up  !  up  !  Whatsoever  thy  hand  findeth  to 
do,  do  it  with  thy  whole  might.  Work  while  it  is 
called  to-day ;  for  the  Night  cometh  wherein  no 
man  can  work.'  Not,  perhaps,  a  hopeful  or  a  cheer- 
ing creed  this  ;  but  at  all  events  a  strenuous  and  a 
noble  one.  Such  as  it  is,  it  contains  the  substance 
of  Carlyle's  contribution  to  religious  thought.  And 
we  may  profitably  remember  that  the  true  effect  and 
grandeur  of  a  creed  is  not  to  be  measured  by  its 
dimensions  but  by  its  intensity.  We  do  not  need 
large  creeds  for  high  lives,  but  we  do  need  deep 


CARLYLE' S  TEACHING  193 

convictions,  and  Carlyle  believed  his  creed  and  lived 
by  it  with  passionate  sincerity. 

I  have  said  that  this  is  not  a  hopeful  creed,  nor 
was  Carlyle  ever  a  hopeful  prophet.  He  called  him- 
self a  Radical  of  the  quiet  order,  but  he  had  none 
of  the  hopefulness  of  Radicalism,  nor  was  it  in  him 
to  be  quiet  on  any  subject  that  interested  him. 
There  is  a  good  deal  of  truth  in  the  ironical  remark 
of  Maurice,  that  Carlyle  believed  in  a  God  who  left 
off  governing  the  world  at  the  death  of  Oliver 
Cromwell.  He  saw  nothing  in  modern  progress 
that  justified  its  boasts,  and  it  must  be  owned  that 
his  social  forecasts  have  been  all  too  amply  fulfilled. 
The  hopefulness  of  Emerson  positively  angered  him. 
He  took  him  round  London,  showing  him  the  worst 
of  its  many  abominations,  asking  after  each  had 
been  duly  objurgated,  '  Do  you  believe  in  the  devil 
now  ? '  His  very  reverence  for  work  led  him  to 
reverence  any  sort  of  great  worker,  irrespective  of 
the  positive  results  of  his  energy.  It  led  him  into 
the  mistake  of  glorifying  Frederick  the  Great.  It 
led  him  into  the  still  greater  error  of  defending  Dr. 
Francia,  the  Dictator  of  Paraguay.  So  far  as  the 
first  article  of  the  Radical  faith  goes,  a  belief  in  the 
people  and  the  wisdom  of  majorities,  he  was  a 
hardened  unbeliever.  Yet  it  was  not  because  he  did 
not  sympathise  with  the  people.  His  rapid  and 
brilliant  etchings  of  labouring  folk — the  poor  drudge, 
son  of  a  race  of  drudges,  with  bowed  shoulders  and 
broken  finger-nails,  whom  he  sees  in  Bruges  ;  the 
poor  Irishman  'in  Piccadilly,  blue-visaged,  thatched 
in  rags,  a  blue  child  on  each  arm  :  hunger-driven, 
wide-mouthed,  seeking  whom  he  may  devour' — are 
full  of  tenderness  and  compassion.     He  never  forgot 

N 


194  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

that  he  himself  was  the  child  of  labouring  folk,  and 
he  spoke  for  his  order.  But  he  had  no  mind  to 
hand  over  the  government  of  the  nation  to  the 
drudges.  His  theory  of  government  was  govern- 
ment by  great  men,  by  which  he  meant  strong  men. 
History  was  to  him  at  bottom  the  story  of  great  men 
at  work.  He  believed  in  individualism  to  the  last 
degree  when  government  was  in  question.  If  a  man 
had  the  power  to  rule,  it  was  his  right  to  be  a  ruler, 
and  those  who  had  not  the  power  should  be  glad 
and  thankful  to  obey.  If  they  would  not  obey,  the 
one  remedy  was  the  Napoleonic  '  whiff  of  grape-shot,' 
or  something  akin  to  it,  and  in  this  case  Might  was 
the  divinest  Right. 

Yet  this  is  very  far  from  being  all  Carlyle's  poli- 
tical gospel.  He  advocated  emigration,  and  by 
systematic  emigration  a  dimly  formulated  scheme 
of  imperial  federation,  long  before  these  things  were 
discussed  by  politicians.  His  denunciations  of  com- 
petition really  paved  the  way  for  the  great  schemes 
of  co-operation  which  have  since  been  effected.  More 
or  less  he  believed  that  the  great  remedy  for  poverty 
was  to  get  back  to  the  land.  '  Captains  of  industry' 
was  his  suggestive  phrase,  by  which  he  indicated  the 
organisation  of  labour.  His  appeals  to  the  aristo- 
cracy to  be  a  true  aristocracy  of  work,  alive  to  their 
social  duties,  and  justly  powerful  because  nobly  wise, 
were  certainly  not  unregarded.  Much  that  we  call 
socialism  to-day  had  its  real  origin  in  the  writings 
of  Carlyle.  The  condition  of  the  people  was  with 
him  a  burning  and  tremendous  question.  It  was 
not  within  the  range  of  his  powers  to  suggest  much 
in  the  way  of  practical  measures ;  his  genius  was 
not  constructive.     The  function  of  the  prophet  has 


CARLYLE'S  TEACHING  195 

always  been  rather  to  expose  an  evil  than  to  pro- 
vide a  remedy.  It  must  be  admitted  that  Carlyle's 
denunciations  are  more  convincing  than  his  remedies. 
But  they  had  one  effect  whose  magnitude  is  immea- 
surable :  they  roused  the  minds  of  all  thinking  men 
throughout  England  to  the  real  state  of  affairs,  and 
created  the  new  paths  of  social  reform.  The  blazing 
vehemence  of  his  style,  the  intense  vividness  of  his 
pictures,  could  not  fail  to  arrest  attention.  He  shat- 
tered for  ever  the  hypocrisy  that  went  by  the  name 
of  '  unexampled  prosperity.'  He  forced  men  to 
think.  In  depicting  the  social  England  of  his  time 
he  'splashed  '  great  masses  of  colour  on  his  canvas, 
as  he  did  in  describing  the  French  Revolution,  and 
all  earnest  men  were  astonished  into  attention.  The 
result  has  been,  as  Dr.  Garnett  puts  it,  that  '  opinion 
has  in  the  main  followed  the  track  pointed  out  by 
Carlyle's  luminous  finger';  and  a  completer  testi- 
mony to  his  political  prescience  could  not  be  desired. 
Much  must  be  allowed  for  Carlyle's  love  of  paradox 
in  the  statement  of  these  truths.  Fundamentally,  it 
is  the  exaggeration  of  the  humorist  who,  in  his 
habitual  ironies,  is  half-conscious  that  he  caricatures 
himself  as  well  as  his  opponents.  No  doubt  it  would 
have  been  very  helpful  to  persons  of  slow  understand- 
ing if  he  had  always  spoken  with  logical  gravity,  and 
had  strictly  defined  and  stated  what  he  meant.  But 
then  he  would  have  been  as  dull  as  they  are.  The 
half-dozen  truths  which  he  had  to  teach  are  as 
common  as  copy-book  headlines,  and  as  depressing 
Put  in  plain  and  exact  English,  they  arc  things 
which  everybody  knows,  and  is  willing  to  accept 
theoretically,  however  little  he  is  disposed  to  act 
upon  them.     The  supreme  merit  of  Carlyle  is  that 


196  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

he  sets  these  commonplaces  on  fire  by  his  vehemence, 
and  vitalises  them  by  his  humour.  It  is  the  humour 
of  Carlyle  that  keeps  his  writings  fresh.  His  nick- 
names stick  when  his  argument  is  forgotten.  In  his 
hands  political  economy  itself  ceases  to  be  a  dismal 
science,  and  becomes  a  manual  of  witty  metaphors. 
This  is  so  great  an  achievement  that  we  may  readily 
forgive  his  frequent  inconsequence,  and  what  is 
worse,  his  unfairness  and  exaggeration  of  statement. 
To  this  it  may  be  added  that,  where  Carlyle  was 
convinced  of  any  unfairness  of  statement,  or  unneed- 
ful  acerbity  of  temper,  no  one  showed  a  quicker  or 
nobler  magnanimity  in  apology.  His  bark  was 
always  worse  than  his  bite.  We  read  his  ferocious 
attacks  on  opponents,  or  his  satiric  descriptions  of 
persons,  in  cool  blood,  and  do  not  hear  that  genial 
laugh  which  wound  up  many  similar  vituperations 
in  his  conversation,  and  drew  their  sting.  For  all 
his  angry  counsel  to  whip  drones  and  shoot  rogues, 
Mrs.  Carlyle  tells  us  that  when  she  read  aloud  to 
him  the  account  of  the  execution  of  the  assassin 
Buranelli,  '  tears  rolled  down  Carlyle's  cheeks — he 
who  talks  of  shooting  Irishmen  who  will  not  work.' 
He  was  lamentably  wrong  in  his  judgment  of  the 
great  issues  involved  in  the  American  Civil  War ; 
but  when,  years  afterwards,  Mrs.  Charles  Lowell, 
whose  son  had  fallen  in  the  war,  visited  him,  he 
took  her  by  her  hand,  and  said,  even  with  tears,  '  I 
doubt  I  have  been  mistaken.'  Amid  all  his  bright 
derision  and  savage  mockery,  no  one  can  fail  to  see 
that  he  sought  for  and  loved  truth  alone.  That  was, 
and  will  always  remain,  his  crowning  honour.  He 
sought  it,  and  was  loyal  to  it,  when  he  turned  sadly 
from  the  ministry  for  which  he  was  destined,  when 


CARLYLE'S  TEACHING  197 


he  went  into  the  wilderness  of  Craigenputtock,  when 
he  was  content  to  be  ostracised  by  Jeffrey  and  his 
clique  as  an  intellectual  Ishmael,  when  he  finally 
came  to  London  and  took  up  his  real  life-work, 
content  to  starve,  if  needs  be,  but  resolved  to  speak 
or  write  no  word  that  should  win  him  bread  or  fame 
at  the  price  of  insincerity.  And  in  the  hearts  of  thou- 
sands of  men,  and  among  them  the  best  and  ablest 
of  his  time,  he  begot  the  same  temper.  Kingsley, 
Sterling,  Ruskin,  and  a  score  of  others  gathered  to 
his  standard,  not  to  name  the  throng  of  humbler 
disciples  in  every  walk  of  life  who  caught  the  in- 
spiration of  his  passion,  and  re-interpreted  his 
thoughts.  This  was  the  work  he  did  for  England  ; 
amid  manifold  shams  and  hypocrisies  he  stood  fast 
by  the  truth,  for  it  was  to  bear  witness  to  the  truth 
that  he  was  born,  and  came  into  the  world. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

CARLYLE  :   CHARACTERISTICS 

'  NOTHING  seems  hid  from  those  wonderful  eyes  of 
yours ;  those  devouring  eyes  ;  those  thirsty  eyes ; 
those  portrait-eating,  portrait-painting  eyes  of  thine,' 
wrote  Emerson  to  Carlyle  in  one  of  his  early  letters. 
These  phrases  of  Emerson  are  not  less  striking  than 
true,  and  they  convey  to  us  much  of  Carlyle's  secret 
as  an  artist.  Whatever  may  be  said  about  certain 
infelicities  of  style  which  persons  of  conventional 
judgment  lay  to  his  charge,  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  Carlyle  is  a  consummate  artist,  with  a  power  of 
vivid  expression  unmatched  in  English  literature. 
There  is,  indeed,  something  almost  terrible  in  his 
power  of  vision.  Nothing  escapes  him.  If  he  visits 
a  strange  town  or  village,  crosses  the  Irish  sea  with 
a  rough  group  of  '  unhappy  creatures,'  talks  with  a 
labourer  at  Craigenputtock,  spends  an  hour  with 
Leigh  Hunt  or  Coleridge,  meets  Lamb,  Fraser, 
Irving,  Murray — the  result  is  the  same,  a  powerful 
etching,  done  with  the  fewest  strokes,  but  omitting 
nothing  of  either  pathos  or  folly,  absurdity  or  weak- 
ness. A  rarer  gift — let  us  also  say  a  more  perilous 
gift — than  this  could  not  be  ;  perilous  because  from 
its  inconsiderate  display  upon  those  who  stood 
nearest    to   him,    Carlyle's    reputation    has    suffered 


CARLYLE:  CHARACTERISTICS  199 

most.  But  it  is  a  supreme  gift,  and  that  which  more 
than  any  other  constitutes  the  great  artist.  It  is  by 
virtue  of  this  extraordinary  vigour  of  intellectual 
vision,  and  artistic  sensitiveness,  that  Carlyle  has 
written  books  which  not  merely  reflect  life,  but  are 
life  itself,  and  move  us  as  only  the  greatest  masters 
of  the  creative  imagination  can  move  us. 

After  all,  the  man  of  letters  must  expect  fame  for 
his  literary  qualities,  rather  than  for  his  message.  It 
is  possible  enough  that  his  message  may  be  out- 
dated ;  but  the  quality  of  a  man's  literary  gift  is  not 
subject  to  permutation.  The  message  of  Carlyle  we 
have  considered  :  let  us  finally  ask,  what  original 
combination  of  gifts  does  he  possess  as  a  man  of 
letters? 

First  of  all,  and  chiefly,  is  this  supreme  artistic 
faculty.  His  dramatic  instinct  is  perfect,  his  eye  for 
the  fine  points  and  grouping  of  his  picture  inevitably 
right.  It  is  this  gift  which  is  so  conspicuous  in  the 
French  Revolution,  and  makes  it  a  great  epic,  a  series 
of  astonishing  tableaux  vivants,  rather  than  a  prose 
history.  But  the  gift  is  his  in  whatever  he  touches, 
and  it  imparts  the  glow  of  genius  to  his  least  con- 
sidered writings.  There  is  not  another  modern 
writer  of  English  who  has  produced  so  much  of 
which  so  little  can  be  spared.  Not  even  Ruskin  has 
a  truer  eye  for  colour  and  effect  in  Nature,  nor  can 
Ruskin  paint  Nature  with  a  more  impassioned  sense 
of  fellowship  in  the  mysteries  and  glories  of  the 
outward  world.  Could  the  view  from  Highgate  be 
painted  in  any  finer  fashion  than  this,  with  clearer 
austerity  of  phrase,  and  yet  with  a  certain  noble 
largeness  of  effect  too:  '  Waving,  blooming  country 
of  the  brightest  green  ;  dotted  all  over  with  hand- 


200  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

some  villas,  handsome  groves  ;  crossed  by  roads  and 
human  traffic,  here  inaudible  or  heard  only  as  a 
musical  hum ;  and  behind  all  swam,  under  olive- 
tinted  haze,  the  illimitable  limitary  ocean  of  London  ?' 
Or  what  picture  of  a  Scotch  spring  can  be  more 
accurately  perfect  than  this  :  '  The  hills  stand  snow- 
powdered,  pale,  bright.  The  black  hailstorm  awakens 
in  them,  rushes  down  like  a  black,  swift  ocean-tide, 
valley  answering  valley ;  and  again  the  sun  blinks 
out,  and  the  poor  sower  is  casting  his  grain  into  the 
furrow,  hopeful  he  that  the  Zodiacs  and  far  heavenly 
Horologes  have  not  faltered?'  Or  who  that  has 
read  it,  will  not  recall  the  passage  in  which  he  speaks 
of  riding  past  the  old  churchyard  at  midnight,  the 
huge  elm  darkly  branched  against  the  clear  sky,  and 
one  star  bright  above  it,  and  the  sense  that  God  was 
over  all  ?  It  is  in  such  passages  that  the  deep  poetry 
of  Carlyle's  soul  utters  itself  most  freely.  And  these 
fine  moments  abound  in  all  his  writings.  He  has  no 
need  to  save  up  his  happy  inspirations  for  future  use, 
after  the  fashion  of  lesser  men.  His  is  the  freest 
and  most  prodigal  of  hands ;  and  nowhere  outside 
the  great  poets,  and  very  rarely  within  them,  can 
there  be  found  depictions  of  Nature  at  once  so 
simple,  adequate,  and  perfect. 

The  same  faculty  manifests  itself  even  more  re- 
markably in  his  sketches  of  persons.  Without  an 
effort,  by  the  mere  instantaneous  flash  of  a  word, 
the  photograph  stands  complete.  Sometimes  the 
process  is  slightly  more  elaborate,  but  it  is  always 
characterised  by  the  same  intensity  and  rapidity  of 
execution.  As  pieces  of  description,  which  sum  up 
with  a  strange  daring  and  completeness  not  merely 
the  outward  appearance  of  men,  but  their  spiritual 


CARLYLE:  CHARACTERISTICS  20 1 

significance  also,  what  can  compare  with  these: — 
Coleridge,  'a  steam-engine  of  a  hundred  horse 
power,  with  the  boiler  burst';  Tennyson,  ca  fine, 
large-featured,  dim-eyed,  bronze-coloured,  shaggy- 
headed  man  is  Alfred :  dusty,  smoky,  free  and  easy, 
who  swims  outwardly  and  inwardly  with  great  com- 
posure in  an  inarticulate  element  of  tranquil  chaos 
and  tobacco-smoke ' ;  Mazzini,  a  '  swift,  yet  still, 
Ligurian  figure ;  merciful  and  fierce ;  true  as  steel, 
the  word  and  thought  of  him  limpid  as  water,  by 
nature  a  little  lyrical  poet.'  It  often  happens,  indeed, 
that  there  is  none  of  the  geniality  of  these  descrip- 
tions of  Tennyson  and  Mazzini  in  Carlyle's  later 
pictures  of  some  of  his  contemporaries.  There  is 
something  even  savage  and  terrible  in  his  sketch  of 
Charles  Lamb,  and  his  description  of  Mill — 'wither- 
ing or  withered  ;  his  eyes  go  twinkling  and  jerking 
with  wild  lights  and  twitches,  his  head  is  bald,  his 
face  brown  and  dry — poor  fellow  after  all.'  It  must 
be  remembered,  however,  that  this  picture  of  Mill 
occurs  in  a  letter  never  meant  for  publication,  and  it 
never  ought  to  have  been  published.  Yet  there  is 
no  doubting  either  its  truth  or  power  as  a  piece  of 
art.  The  lines  are  etched  in  with  a  heavy  and 
savage  hand,  but  undoubtedly  by  the  hand  of  a 
master.  In  this  peculiar  power  of  portraiture  by 
means  of  terse  and  vivid  phrases,  Tacitus  is  the 
only  writer  with  whom  Carlyle  can  be  compared, 
and  Carlyle  is  in  every  way  his  master. 

The  artistic  sense  which  makes  him  so  superb 
a  phrase-maker  in  describing  men  serves  him  in 
another  form  when  he  comes  to  the  criticism  of 
their  works.  One  secret  of  his  method  is  to  convey 
his  impression   in  some  strange   and  yet  felicitous 


202  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

metaphor,  rather  than  by  any  mere  collocation  of 
qualities.  Thus,  when  he  says  of  Emerson's  style 
that  it  has  'brevity,  simplicity,  softness,  homely 
grace,  with  such  a  penetrating  meaning,  soft  enough, 
but  irresistible,  going  down  to  the  depths  and  up 
to  the  heights,  as  silent  electricity  goes,'  we  feel  that 
there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said.  It  is  the  last 
phrase,  the  metaphor  of  '  silent  electricity,'  which 
completes  and  fixes  the  whole  impression.  Reams 
of  essays  on  Emerson  would  tell  us  nothing  more 
than  Carlyle  has  already  told  us  in  this  one  abrupt, 
yet  half-rhythmic  sentence.  And  it  is  so  with  all 
his  criticism.  He  has  an  inevitable  instinct  for  the 
right  word,  the  one  fine  and  accurate  phrase  which 
expresses  what  is  the  dominant  quality  of  a  writer. 
Thus,  when  he  speaks  of  Gibbon,  he  has  nothing  to 
say  about  the  pomp  and  roll  of  his  style ;  he  puts 
his  finger  at  once  upon  that  which  is  of  vastly  higher 
significance — 'his  winged  sarcasms,  so  quiet,  and 
yet  so  conclusively  transpiercing,  and  killing  dead.' 
Some  allowance  must,  of  course,  be  made  for 
personal  likings  and  prejudices,  especially  in  a 
man  so  liable  to  impulse  as  Carlyle.  Many  of  his 
judgments  upon  his  contemporaries  are  not  only 
ill-natured,  but  they  are  ignorant.  When  he  per- 
sonally disliked  a  man,  he  made  no  effort  to  under- 
stand his  writings,  and  refused  him  even  courtesy, 
as  in  the  case  of  Newman,  whose  brain  he  said  was 
probably  about  the  size  of  a  moderate  rabbit's.  But 
these  grotesque  injustices  occur  for  the  most  part 
in  conversation,  or  in  private  letters,  where  he  felt 
himself  free  to  talk  much  as  Dr.  Johnson  did,  with 
small  regard  to  anything  but  his  own  enjoyment 
in  expressing  his  mind.      When  he  sat  down  to  any 


CARLYLE.   CHARACTERISTICS  203 


deliberate  piece  of  criticism,  the  case  was  wholly 
altered.  He  then  brought  all  his  great  powers  of 
insight,  sympathy,  and  vividness  to  bear  upon  his 
author.  He  permitted  no  prejudice  to  keep  him 
from  expressing  what  he  felt  to  be  the  essential 
truth  about  the  man  and  his  work.  The  result  is 
that  his  essays  on  authors — for  example  those  on 
Johnson  and  Burns — are  in  themselves  imperishable 
pieces  of  literature.  They  convey  to  the  mind  a 
clearer  image  of  the  man,  both  physical  and  spiritual, 
than  can  be  found  anywhere  else.  They  are  sufficient 
to  prove  that  in  the  domain  of  criticism,  it  is  a  case 
of  Carlyle  first  and  the  rest  nowhere. 

As  compared  with  other  writers  of  history,  essay, 
and  biography,  the  power  of  Carlyle  comes  out  in 
two  ways.  The  first  is  a  superior  sincerity.  He 
will  have  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing 
but  the  truth  about  his  hero.  Thus,  for  example, 
no  one  could  have  been  more  antipathetic  to  him 
than  Voltaire.  He  disliked  his  writings,  and  per- 
haps resented  still  more  his  light  and  airy  mockery, 
his  power  of  riding  on  the  wave,  of  utilising  popu- 
larity, of  dancing  through  life  with  inimitable  gaiety, 
scattering  scathing  jests  as  he  went.  But  he  could 
recognise  that  Voltaire  was  after  all  a  sort  of  prophet, 
and  honest  to  the  bone.  At  all  events,  he  had  stood 
upon  the  side  of  unpopular  justice,  and  had  a  passion 
for  right.  Macaulay,  when  he  speaks  of  Voltaire, 
sees  none  of  these  things.  He  writes  a  bitter  and 
clever  verse  about  him,  and  dismisses  the  subject. 
Carlyle,  with  a  far  more  intense  passion  for  religion, 
and  a  stronger  detestation  of  Voltaire's  temper  toward 
it,  than  Macaulay  could  ever  have  felt,  has  a  search- 
ing sincerity  of  insight  which  discovers  at  once  the 


204  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

true  spiritual  calibre  of  the  man.  Considering  what 
Carlyle's  own  beliefs  were,  and  what  his  usual  temper 
was  toward  those  who  differed  from  him,  his  essay 
on  Voltaire  is  one  of  the  most  conspicuous  triumphs 
of  sincerity  which  literature  affords. 

The  other  direction  in  which  the  power  of  Carlyle 
appears  is  his  insight.  Here,  again,  one  cannot  but 
compare  Macaulay  at  the  risk  of  repeating  what  has 
been  already  said.  Macaulay  steps  before  the  court 
amid  rounds  of  applause,  with  instructions  to  smash 
his  opponent's  case.  The  audience  is  not  disappointed. 
As  a  rule  he  fulfils  their  utmost  hopes.  He  marshals 
his  case  with  the  consummate  ability  of  a  great 
advocate.  In  nothing  that  he  has  written  is  he  so 
much  in  his  element  as  in  his  demolition  of  poor 
Robert  Montgomery,  who,  it  must  be  owned,  richly 
deserved  all  he  got.  His  notion  of  describing  a  man 
is  the  special  pleader's  notion — to  accumulate  various 
ascertainable  details  about  him.  He  can  pack  a 
paragraph  with  interesting  trivialities  about  a  man's 
appetite,  his  clothes,  his  habits,  his  pleasures,  and 
his  vices.  If  he  is  not  a  Whig,  a  great  deal  more 
will  be  said  of  his  vices  than  of  anything  else.  But 
Macaulay  never,  by  any  chance,  gives  us  the  full- 
length  portrait  of  a  man,  and  Carlyle  does.  He 
arranges  the  wig,  the  clothes,  the  gloves  he  wore 
when  he  went  to  court,  and  all  the  other  useful 
accessories  of  the  studio,  but  he  does  not  paint  the 
man.  Carlyle  will  take  as  deliberate  and  patient 
care  as  Macaulay  to  gather  details,  but  he  knows 
that  they  are  only  details.  What  he  wants,  and  will 
have,  if  it  be  discoverable,  is  the  spiritual  truth 
about  the  man.  He  constructs  his  history  and 
biography   from  the    inside,  not    the   outside.      He 


CARLYLE:  CHARACTERISTICS  205 


sees,  and  boldly  fingers,  the  '  very  pulse  of  the 
machine.'  He  analyses  and  combines  spiritual 
elements  with  an  alchemy  whose  secret  no  other 
shares.  The  result  is  that  when  Carlyle  has  finished 
such  a  work  as  his  Cromwell,  there  is  nothing  more 
to  be  said.  '  Here,'  he  says,  '  is  the  veracious  man, 
warts  and  all.  Take  him  or  leave  him  as  you  will, 
but  you  can't  make  him  different'  Nor  can  we. 
Nothing  that  has  been  written  on  Cromwell  since 
Carlyle  wrote  has  had  the  slightest  effect  on  public 
opinion,  at  least  by  way  of  modifying  Carlyle's 
verdict.  But  there  is  scarcely  a  great  passage  in 
Macaulay  which  is  not  capable  of  another  version, 
and  Mr.  Gladstone  has  even  gone  so  far  as  to  speak 
of  Macaulay's  mind  as  hermetically  sealed  to  truths 
which  he  did  not  wish  to  know.  In  matters  of 
private  judgment  Carlyle  could  often  be  both  unjust 
and  ungenerous,  but  no  such  charge  can  be  made 
against  his  writings.  As  historian,  biographer,  and 
essayist,  his  power  of  insight  is  so  acute  that  it 
often  seems  almost  magical,  and  it  never  fails  to 
discover  and  attest  the  truth,  so  far  as  the  absolute 
truth  can  be  known,  about  any  great  actor  or  maker 
of  the  past. 

Of  the  peculiarity  of  Carlyle's  dialect  much  has 
been  written,  but  only  a  word  need  be  spoken  here. 
It  used  to  be  the  custom  to  accuse  him  of  German- 
ising the  English  tongue,  and  Wordsworth  once 
said  that  he  was  a  pest  to  the  language.  But  what 
was  supposed  to  be  a  German  discoloration  was 
really  a  Scotch.  He  simply  talked  all  through  his 
life  the  strong  Doric  he  had  learned  as  a  boy  at 
Ecclefechan.  His  father  had  the  same  faculty  of 
flashing  and   rugged    phrase :    Carlyle   inherited    it. 


206  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

It  is  true  that,  when  he  began  to  write,  he  wrote 
precisely  and  smoothly.  Precisely,  indeed,  he  always 
wrote :  no  slipshod  sentences  ever  escaped  him,  and 
his  hastiest  note  is  finished  with  as  jealous  an  atten- 
tion to  phrase  as  though  it  were  meant  for  the  press, 
and  intended  as  a  hostage  for  immortality.  But  as 
his  own  poetic  power  grew,  he  felt  the  need  for  a 
larger  form,  and  he  found  it  in  the  expressive  language 
of  his  boyhood.  Thinking  always  as  an  idealist,  he 
was  more  and  more  constrained  to  write  as  a  realist, 
and  smoothness  and  polish  of  phrase  is  inconsistent 
with  a  realism  so  vigorous  as  his.  In  prose  he  does 
pretty  much  what  Browning  does  in  poetry,  except 
that  with  all  his  ruggedness  he  is  never  obscure. 
Burns  also  wrote  smooth  English,  but  not  when  he 
felt  deeply;  then  his  tongue  fell  into  the  deeper 
harmonies  of  the  mellow  Doric.  Who  does  not 
prefer  the  latter?  Who  cannot  perceive  that  Tain  d 
Shanteris  worth  forty  volumes  of  letters  to  Clarinda? 
And  difficult  and  harsh  as  it  may  appear  at  first, 
till  the  secret  of  its  rhythm  is  learned,  who  does  not 
also  feel  that,  as  a  vehicle  of  utterance,  the  style  of 
Sartor  Resartus  is  every  way  nobler  and  greater 
than  the  polished  paragraphs  of  the  Life  of  Schiller 
and  the  earlier  essays  ? 

Of  the  many  books  of  Carlyle  it  is  impossible 
to  take  detailed  notice.  The  Miscellaneous  Essays, 
Hero-  Worship,  and  The  French  Revolution  will  pro- 
bably remain  the  most  popular.  The  political 
writings  will  be  the  first  to  perish  in  the  nature  of 
things.  The  gospel  of  Carlyle — that  is,  the  fullest 
expression  of  what  he  regarded  as  his  spiritual 
message  to  his  times — will  be  best  learned  from 
Sartor  Resartus  and  the  Life  of  Sterling.     Beyond 


CARLYLE:  CHARACTERISTICS  207 

these  numerous  and  various  writings  there  rises  the 
huge  bulk  of  the  History  of  Frederick  the  Great, 
which  in  many  ways  is  his  greatest  work.  Emerson 
said  that  it  was  the  wittiest  book  ever  written,  and 
as  a  series  of  scenes,  inimitably  staged,  and  ranging 
through  every  latitude  of  emotion,  there  is  nothing 
comparable  with  it.  The  man  who  could  afford  but 
two  histories  should  read  Gibbon  and  Carlyle's 
Frederick  :  in  these  the  greatest  historical  genius  of 
our  race  finds  its  expression.  But  when  all  estimates 
of  his  works  are  weighed  and  ended,  all  depreciations 
of  time  and  opinion  allowed  for,  most  people  will 
feel  that  Carlyle's  great  legacy  to  the  world  is,  after 
all,  himself.  Next  to  Dr.  Johnson  there  is  no  other 
figure  that  stands  out  in  English  literature  with  such 
distinctness  and  virility.  In  mere  Titanic  mass 
Carlyle,  indeed,  bulks  far  larger  than  the  old  dictator 
of  eighteenth-century  letters.  But  what  is  common 
to  both  is  a  fascinating  perversity,  a  brusque  and 
humorous  honesty,  and  above  all  a  certain  antique 
severity  and  nobleness  of  nature.  Just  as  we  re- 
member and  discuss  Johnson  by  his  characteristics 
rather  than  his  writings,  so  it  may  be,  in  a  century's 
time,  the  figure  and  actual  life  of  Carlyle  will  prove 
more  fascinating  than  anything  which  he  wrote.  It 
may  be  so,  but  who  can  say?  The  one  thing  that 
is  clear  to  us  is  that  he  is  by  far  the  greatest  man  of 
letters  of  the  nineteenth  century,  the  most  interest- 
ing, noble,  and  impressive  ;  and  as  a  spiritual  and 
moral  force,  there  is  no  other  writer  who  has  touched 
his  times  so  deeply,  or  deserves  more  honourable 
memory. 


CHAPTER   XV 

EMERSON 

[Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  born  in  Boston,  May  25,  1803.  Graduated 
at  Harvard,  1821.  Minister  of  the  Second  Church,  Boston,  1829. 
Resigned  in  1832.  Visited  Europe  in  1833,  an  account  of  his 
impressions  afterwards  appearing  in  English  Traits.  Settled  at 
Concord,  1834.  Naltire  published,  1836.  First  series  of  Essays, 
1841.     Second  series,  1844.     Died  in  Concord,  April  27,  1882.] 

INTIMATELY  associated  with  Carlyle,  not  alone  by 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  literary  friendships,  but 
by  a  certain  kinship  of  genius,  is  Emerson.  Emerson 
had  something  of  Carlyle's  keenness  of  vision  with- 
out his  melancholy,  his  humour,  or  his  ruggedness. 
He  was  a  seer  in  the  poetic  sense  rather  than  the 
prophetic ;  and,  as  one  of  his  warmest  admirers  re- 
marked, much  more  of  a  seer  than  a  philosopher. 
In  his  famous  Fable  for  Critics,  Mr.  Russell  Lowell 
institutes  an  elaborate  comparison  between  Carlyle 
and  Emerson,  the  most  discerning  lines  of  which  are 
these : 

'  To  compare  him  with  Plato  would  be  vastly  fairer, 
Carlyle 's  the  more  burly,  but  E.  is  the  rarer ; 
He  sees  fewer  objects,  but  clearlier,  trulier, 
If  C. 's  an  original,  E.  's  more  peculiar; 
C.'s  the  Titan,  as  shaggy  of  mind  as  of  limb,    m 
E.  's  the  clear-eyed  Olympian,  rapid  and  slim.' 

An    American    Plato    Emerson   was,   yet   owing 
nothing  to  Plato,  for  had  Plato  never  lived,  Emerson 

208 


EMERSON  209 


would  have  arrived  by  instinct  at  a  Platonic  view  of 
the  universe.  His  essential  difference  from  Carlyle 
lies  in  the  calmness  and  depth  of  his  inspiration,  as 
compared  with  the  turbulence  and  intermittent 
vividness  of  Carlyle's.  What  Carlyle  writes  in 
lightning,  Emerson  writes  in  light.  He  once 
described  himself  as  being  somewhat  of  a  Quaker; 
clearly  he  possessed  that  secret  of  fine  poise  and 
innermost  tranquillity  which  is  peculiar  to  the  best 
type  of  Quaker  temperament.  In  him  it  amounted 
almost  to  austerity,  and  yet  a  thoroughly  kindly  and 
genial  austerity.  Anger,  violence,  passion  of  any 
kind  he  did  not  know.  He  stood  aloof  from  the 
world,  dreamed  his  dream,  and  was  content.  Perhaps 
much  of  his  influence  arose  from  this  spiritual  aloof- 
ness. He  does  not  carry  the  intellect  by  assault, 
but  gently  interfuses  and  penetrates  it  with  his 
ideas ;  speaks  not  loudly  but  with  quiet  convincing 
power ;  dazzles  us  a  little,  yet  with  a  certain  veiled 
softness  of  light ;  melts  our  opposition  rather  than 
overcomes  it  ;  dissolves  our  materialism  in  a  subtle 
elixir  of  spirituality  ;  steals  into  our  mind  with  a 
footfall  so  light  our  logic  does  not  waken  ;  annexes 
and  occupies  it,  making  loyal  subjects  of  us  before 
we  know  it,  and  by  methods  that  we  have  neither 
the  will  nor  the  means  to  dispute. 

Emerson's  life  is  remarkable  for  a  certain  noble 
unity.  One  discovers  in  it  no  trace  of  spiritual  con- 
flict, no  disruption  of  thought,  none  of  those  acute 
hours  of  conflict  which  give  sudden  and  new 
determination  to  ideas  and  conduct.  He  was  born 
into  culture,  the  very  best  of  its  kind  then  available. 
As  a  boy  he  was  intensely  interested  in  Montaigne, 
and    was  accustomed    to   take    Pascal's   Pensees  to 

O 


210  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

church  with  him.  The  first  awakenings  of  his  mind 
were  eagerly  watched  and  sedulously  nurtured.  Yet 
it  does  not  appear  that  either  his  family  or  his  early 
friends  credited  him  with  genius.  Probably  this  was 
because  he  was  too  sensitive  and  reticent  to  say 
much  about  the  processes  of  his  own  mind.  Always 
very  much  of  a  recluse  in  his  habits,  he  was  a  recluse 
in  mind  also.  In  later  life  it  was  often  remarked 
that  he  bore  a  singular  resemblance  to  Newman;  he 
resembled  Newman  also  in  many  qualities  of 
temperament.  He  belonged  essentially,  as  Newman 
did,  to  the  great  society  of  the  mystics,  possessed  the 
same  power  of  personal  charm,  had  the  same  air  of 
austerity  touched  with  suavity,  impressed  all  who 
knew  him  with  the  same  sense  of  separation  from 
the  common  passions  of  the  flesh,  and  the  conven- 
tional pursuits  of  men.  Emerson,  bred  at  Oxford, 
can  be  easily  conceived  as  falling  under  the  fascina- 
tion of  mediaeval  theology.  Newman,  bred  in  the 
brisk  intellectual  air  of  New  England  Unitarianism, 
might  quite  as  easily  be  conceived  as  drifting  into 
transcendental  conceptions  of  life  and  nature.  The 
parallel,  however,  must  not  be  pushed  too  far. 
Emerson  had  little  of  Newman's  spiritual  passionate- 
ness — a  most  important  matter.  It  would  appear 
that  he  never  felt  at  any  time  that  sense  of  sin  which 
has  been  so  pregnant  and  so  real  to  all  men  of  pro- 
found religious  genius.  Nor  had  he  the  least  spark 
of  that  divine  discontent  which  all  reformers  have 
known.  Carlyle  felt  this  as  a  disappointing  element 
in  Emerson's  character.  '  He  seems  very  content 
with  life,  and  takes  much  satisfaction  in  the  world,' 
wrote  Carlyle.  'It's  a  very  striking  and  curious 
spectacle   to  behold  a  man  in  these  days   so   con- 


EMERSON  211 


fidently  cheerful  as  Emerson.'  Yet  Carlyle  would 
have  been  the  first  to  admit  that  Emerson  possessed 
a  quiet  intensity  of  soul,  by  virtue  of  which  he  was 
an  appointed  teacher  of  men. 

The  first  efforts  of  Emerson  as  teacher  were  not 
very  successful.  One  hears  of  certain  college 
addresses,  which  owed  their  charm,  perhaps,  to  a 
singularly  melodious  voice — all  the  Emersons  had 
beautiful  voices — but  which  wakened  no  enthusiasm. 
'  I  found  it  long  and  dry,'  writes  Josiah  Ouincy  of 
one  of  these  dissertations.  The  real  Emerson  of 
this  period  is  found  in  certain  private  letters.  '  I  am 
seeking  to  put  myself  on  a  footing  of  old  acquaint- 
ance with  nature,  as  a  poet  should ' — '  a  pair  of  moon- 
light evenings  have  screwed  up  my  esteem  several 
pegs  higher,  by  supplying  my  brain  with  several 
bright  fragments  of  thought,  and  making  me  dream 
that  mind  as  well  as  body  respired  more  freely  here.' 
In  these  confessions  we  have  the  first  prelusive 
notes  of  a  music  since  familiar.  In  the  natural  order 
of  things  Emerson  should  have  followed  the  family 
tradition,  and  have  found  his  vocation  in  the  pulpit. 
He  made  the  experiment  as  became  a  dutiful  son, 
but  without  enthusiasm.  If  he  did  not  succeed,  he 
did  not  fail.  The  experience  did  him  no  harm  ;  it 
probably  taught  him  something  of  the  art  of  public 
address,  and  gave  him  a  breathing-time.  At  last  a 
crisis  came,  if  one  may  dignify  by  so  large  a  word 
the  equable  and  gentle  process  of  events  which  gave 
Emerson  his  liberty.  Ostensibly  the  ecclesiastical 
rock  on  which  Emerson  split  was  the  Sacrament. 
He  informed  his  congregation  that  he  could  not 
regard  the  Lord's  Supper  as  meant  to  be  a  permanent 
institution,    adding,    with     a    touch   of   brusqucness 


212  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

unusual  with  him,  that  even  if  he  did  so  think  he 
would  not  adopt  it.  '  I  should  choose  other  ways, 
which,  as  more  effectual  upon  me,  He  would  approve 
more.  For  I  choose  that  my  remembrances  of  Him 
should  be  pleasing,  affecting,  religious.  I  will  love 
Him  as  a  glorified  friend,  after  the  free  way  of  friend- 
ship, and  not  pay  him  a  stiff  sign  of  respect,  as  men 
do  to  those  whom  they  fear  ! ' 

Emerson  probably  imagined  that  he  could  carry 
his  congregation  with  him  in  these  conclusions.  It 
seems  unlikely  that  he  really  wished  to  terminate  a 
career  in  which  he  had  found  a  good  deal  of  quiet 
happiness.  Certainly  his  congregation  had  no  wish 
that  he  should  leave  them.  They  were  as  liberal  in 
thought,  as  devoted  to  culture,  as  any  congregation 
could  well  be,  and  throughout  New  England  a 
traditional  respect  and  affection  attached  to  the 
name  of  Emerson.  But  Emerson  was  not  aware 
that  he  had  outgrown  them  till  this  sudden  cause  of 
difference  arose.  When  the  mind  is  full  of  fluid 
elements  of  new  thought,  held  in  a  state  of  suspen- 
sion, it  needs  but  a  touch  to  precipitate  crystallisa- 
tion. The  question  of  what  the  Lord's  Supper  meant 
served  to  bring  matters  to  the  test,  but  any  other 
subject  would  have  served  as  well.  He  had  spoken 
truth  when  he  said  that  he  was  more  of  a  Quaker 
than  anything  else  ;  he  found  the  Quaker  in  him 
now  quietly  protesting  against  all  form,  and  dream- 
ing of  a  wider  worship.  He  resigned  his  pastorate, 
not  without  some  disappointment  at  the  intractability 
of  his  flock,  but  with  not  the  least  trace  of  soreness 
or  ill-feeling.  Three  days  later,  on  the  Christmas 
Day  of  1832,  he  sailed  for  Europe. 

The  record   of  this    tour,   which    is    perhaps   the 


EMERSON  213 


most  memorable  event  in  Emerson's  quiet  life,  is 
full  of  interest.  He  described  its  purpose  in  a  singular 
phrase — '  To  find  new  affinities  between  me  and  my 
fellow-men.'  The  ordinary  shrines  at  which  the 
tourist  worships  do  not  seem  greatly  to  have  attracted 
him.  For  art  he  had  the  liking  of  the  ordinary 
cultivated  man,  but  little  real  interest.  In  Rome, 
he  reflects  that  the  emotion  awakened  by  names  of 
places,  art,  and  magnificence  is,  after  all,  evanescent 
and  superficial.  He  remembers  at  Syracuse  the  great 
names  identified  with  its  past  history,  but  he  only 
warms  into  real  feeling  when  he  speaks  of  picking 
wild-flowers  near  the  fountain  of  Cyane.  Venice 
kindles  no  raptures,  Paris  repels  him  by  its  likeness 
to  New  York.  In  these  confessions  one  reads  the 
man.  Nature,  then  and  always,  held  the  first  place 
in  Emerson's  affections,  and  next  to  nature,  man  in 
his  spiritual  significance.  Even  the  famous  men  whom 
he  meets  do  not  seem  to  have  made  much  impression 
on  him.  Landor,  he  does  not  find  equal  to  his 
reputation  ;  Coleridge  is  disappointing  ;  Wordsworth, 
even  more  so.  He  admits  the  rare  elevation  of 
Wordsworth's  mind  in  its  own  domain  ;  but  it  is 
upon  the  whole  'a  narrow  and  very  English  mind.' 
Newman  he  did  not  meet,  nor  does  he  seem  to  have 
been  aware  of  the  great  influence  he  was  beginning 
to  exert.  Carlyle  he  did  meet,  discovering  his 
whereabouts  at  Craigenputtock  with  difficulty,  and 
the  meeting  was  memorable  in  every  way.  In  Carlyle 
he  found  the  true  friend  of  his  soul.  With  the  widest 
possible  difference  of  temperament,  each  regarded 
the  universe  much  in  the  same  way.  The  most 
remarkable  feature  of  this  famous  interview  was,  as 
Dr.  Garnctt  remarks,  'the  perfectly  equal  footing  of 


214  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

him  whose  genius  was  acknowledged  at  least  by  his 
visitor,  and  the  thinker  as  yet  entirely  unknown  to 
fame.'  Carlyle  at  once  recognised  his  worth,  found 
him  full  of  essential  sincerity — 'the  most  simple  and 
frank  of  men ' — felt  his  charm,  and  foresaw  the  growth 
of  his  genius.  The  impression  made  by  Carlyle  on 
Emerson  was  deep  and  permanent.  Fifty  years  later, 
when  Emerson  lay  dying,  he  turned  with  a  smile  of 
affection  to  Carlyle's  portrait  hanging  on  the  wall, 
and  said, '  That  is  the  man,  my  man.' 

Carlyle  probably  gave  an  impulse  of  cohesion  to 
Emerson's  genius  at  the  precise  moment  when  it  was 
most  needed.  Hitherto  he  had  written  nothing,  and 
although  he  was  not  wanting  in  self-confidence,  had 
no  idea  of  any  urgent  message  which  it  was  laid  on 
him  to  utter.  Carlyle's  frank  recognition  of  him  as 
a  spiritual  and  intellectual  equal  must  have  had  a 
most  stimulating  effect  upon  him.  He  had  left 
America  in  a  state  of  ill-health  and  general  despond- 
ency, so  far  as  it  was  in  one  of  so  equable  a  tempera- 
ment to  know  despondence.  He  had  buried  his 
young  wife  after  a  brief  union  of  but  a  few  months, 
had  severed  himself  from  the  ministry  for  which  he 
had  been  trained,  and,  beyond  certain  vague  dreams 
of  literary  work,  had  no  very  definite  aim  in  life. 
Carlyle's  approval  and  warm  regard  helped  to  reveal 
him  to  himself.  He  went  back  to  America  with  a 
new  and  well-grounded  confidence  in  his  own  powers. 
Henceforth  he  was  to  become  the  prophet  of  spiritual 
ideas  to  America,  as  Carlyle  was  to  England,  and 
in  many  ways  the  work  of  the  two  men  was  to 
intersect. 

The  centre  of  all  Emerson's  system  of  thought  is 
to  be  found  in  the  essay  which  he  called  The  Over- 


EMERSON  215 


soul.      All  matter  was  to  him   the  vesture   of  the 
spiritual,  or  of  the  universal  soul.    '  We  see  the  world, 
he  writes,  '  piece  by  piece,  as  the  sun,  the  moon,  the 
animal,  the  tree  ;  but  the  whole,  of  which  these  are 
the  shining  parts,  is  the  soul.  .  .  .  From  within,  or 
from  behind,  a  light  shines  through  us  upon  things, 
and  makes  us  aware  that  we  are  nothing,  but  the 
light  is  all.    What  we  commonly  call  man,  the  eating, 
drinking,  planting,  calculating  man.,  does  not,  as  we 
know  him,  represent  himself,  but  misrepresents  him- 
self.    Him  we  do  not  respect,  but  the  soul,  whose 
organ  he  is,  would  he  let  it  appear  through  his  action, 
would  make   our   knees   bend.      When   it   breathes 
through  his  intellect,  it  is  genius ;  when  it  breathes 
through  his  will,  it  is  virtue  ;  when  it  flows  through 
his  affection,  it  is  love.  .  .  .  All  reform  aims,  in  some 
one  particular,  to  let  the  great  soul  have  its  way 
through   us.'      The   same   truth    is    put   even  more 
felicitously  in  his  lecture  on  Montaigne.    'The  lesson 
of  life  is  to  believe  what  the  years  and  the  centuries 
say  against  the  hours.     Things  seem  to  tend  down- 
ward, to  justify  despondency,  to  promote  rogues,  to 
defeat  the  just,  and  by  knaves,  as  by  martyrs,  the 
just  cause  is  carried  forward.     Let  a  man  learn  to 
look  for  the  permanent  in  the  mutable  and  the  fleet- 
ing ;    let   him    learn   to   bear   the   disappearance   of 
things  he  was  wont  to  reverence  without  losing  his 
reverence  ;  let  him  learn  that  he  is  here,  not  to  work, 
but  to  be  worked  upon  ;    and  though  abyss   open 
under  abyss,  and  opinion  displace  opinion,  all  are  at 
last  contained  in  the  Eternal  Cause.'     Man  is  here 
to  be  worked  upon — that    is    the   prevailing  note  of 
Emerson's  teaching.      The  greatest  man  is  he  who 
is   most    fully   surrendered    to    the    energy   of    the 


216  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

universal  soul,  most  plastic  to  its  pressure.  All 
history  is  the  working  of  the  universal  soul  through 
man — in  essence  the  conclusion  of  Cromwell  when 
he  asked  what  were  'events'  but  'God  working'? 
So  again  with  genius.  Genius  is  the  instrument  of 
the  unuttered.  It  originates  nothing,  but  it  perfectly 
reports  messages  inaudible  to  others.  The  true 
efficacy  of  genius  lies  in  what  we  call  its  power  of 
intuition  ;  but  what  is  intuition  but  the  power  of 
arriving  at  truth  by  processes  which  have  no  connec- 
tion with  logic  or  external  evidence  ?  Milton,  praying 
that  the  Holy  Spirit  may  brood  over  his  mind  and 
touch  it  to  utterance,  comes  nearer  to  expressing  the 
true  method  of  poetry  than  any  other  has  done. 
Emerson  uses  a  different  terminology,  but  his  mean- 
ing is  the  same.  He  once  told  a  friend  that  when 
he  spoke  of  God  he  preferred  to  say  It.  His  friend 
soon  discovered,  however,  that  when  they  spoke  of 
the  omnipresence  of  God  they  really  meant  the  same 
thing.  In  the  same  way  there  is  no  substantial 
difference  between  Milton  and  Emerson  in  the  defini- 
tion of  genius  except  in  phrase.  Where  Emerson 
gave  his  doctrine  new  force  was  in  widening  its 
range.  Not  only  in  man,  not  only  in  history,  but 
in  all  nature  he  saw  the  universal  soul  moving  behind 
the  screen  of  matter.  The  same  force  that  was 
genius  in  Milton  was  form  in  the  mountain,  beauty 
in  the  cloud,  fragrance  in  the  flower.  Thus,  like 
Spinoza,  he  was  '  God-inebriated,'  seeing  the  whole 
universe  brimming  over  with  God.  In  God  we  lived, 
and  moved,  and  had  our  being ;  and  not  only  we, 
but  every  humblest  creature  under  heaven,  every 
dew-drop  on  the  field,  every  leaf  upon  the  tree,  every 
tiny  life  hidden  in  the  deep  obscurity  of  sea  or  forest. 


EMERSON  217 


Carlyle  has,  of  course,  said  much  the  same  thing, 
but  scarcely,  I  think,  with  such  an  accent  of  experi- 
ence.    Nor  is  Carlyle  consistent  in  his  Pantheism. 
He  was  too  thoroughly  impregnated  with  the  iron 
atoms  of  Calvinism  to  be  quite  easy  in  Pantheism. 
His  early  training  had  implanted  in  him  what  the 
Hebrew   sage   calls    'the   fear   of   the   Lord.'       He 
believed,  with  Emerson,  in  the  Divine  Immanence, 
but   after   a    Hebrew   fashion.      Emerson's   way   of 
putting  things  did  not  please  Carlyle — '  a  gymnoso- 
phist  sitting  on  a  flowery  bank,'  was  his  humorously 
ironic   epithet.      And    many  others   beside   Carlyle 
felt  as  if  Emerson's  essays  were  simply  so   much 
thinly-spun   moonlight.     After  one   of  his   lectures 
the  presiding  minister  thanked  God  that  they  had 
never  heard   such   transcendental    nonsense   before, 
and  prayed  that  they  might   never   hear   the   like 
again.     Emerson's  only  comment  was  that  his  critic 
seemed    'a   very   plain-spoken,  conscientious    man.' 
The  story  does  something  more  than  illustrate  the 
magnanimous  good  temper   of   Emerson  ;    it  is  an 
illustration  of  his  entire  intellectual   serenity.     He 
had  no  doubt  whatever  that  he  had  read  aright  the 
secret   of   the   universe.       The    entire    absence    of 
dubiety  in  a  mind  so   keen   as   Emerson's   is  very 
remarkable.     He  announced  his  conclusions  with  an 
air  of  mild   amicable  infallibility,  which  was  quite 
impervious  to  logic.     It  is  quite  characteristic  that, 
while  he  loved  books,  and  was  unhappy  when  away 
from  them,  yet  they  were  his  comrades  rather  than 
his  counsellors.     It  may  be  doubted  if  he  ever  read 
a  single  book  which  altered  by  an  iota  his  general 
ideas.     He  found  his  own  light  sufficient  for  him. 
Greatly  as  he  loved  Carlyle,  he  learned  nothing  new 


2i8  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

from  him,  and  owed  nothing  either  in  style  or  philo- 
sophy to  his  teachings.  In  his  own  quiet  way  he 
was  the  most  self-poised  of  individualists,  and  the 
firmest  of  dogmatists.  If  this  dogmatism  does  not 
repel  us,  it  is  because  it  is  so  manifestly  the  fruit  of 
experience.  He  reports  upon  the  universe  not  from 
hearsay,  but  as  he  himself  has  found  it,  and  the  real 
power  of  his  essays,  especially  over  young  minds,  is 
in  their  entire  sincerity  and  deliberate  egoism. 

The  secret  of  the  peculiar  serenity  of  Emerson  is 
not  merely  his  Quaker  temperament,  but  his  real 
love  of  Nature.  In  a  very  charming  passage  he  tells 
us  that  when  he  bought  his  farm  at  Concord,  'I  did 
not  know  what  a  bargain  I  had  in  the  blue-birds, 
bobolinks,  and  thrushes,  which  were  not  charged  in 
the  bill.  As  little  did  I  guess  what  sublime  morn- 
ings and  sunsets  I  was  buying,  what  reaches  of 
landscape,  what  fields  and  lanes  for  a  tramp.'  He 
took  an  elemental  joy  in  simple  things,  and  dwelt 
close  to  the  heart  of  Nature.  Much  of  the  sweetness 
of  his  own  temper  was  drawn  directly  from  these 
habits  of  intercourse  with  sylvan  solitude.  With 
health  and  a  day,  he  characteristically  says,  he  will 
make  the  pomp  of  empire  ridiculous.  Great  cities 
did  not  attract  him ;  the  havoc  which  commercial 
life  made  with  the  mind  distressed  him.  He  did  not 
go  so  far  as  Thoreau  in  his  doctrines  of  a  return  to 
Nature,  but  Thoreau  was  his  pupil,  and  carried 
Emerson's  ideas  to  a  logical  conclusion.  '  Nature,' 
he  writes,  'stretcheth  out  her  arms  to  embrace  man ; 
only  let  his  thoughts  be  of  equal  greatness.  A 
virtuous  man  is  in  unison  with  her  works,  and  makes 
the  central  figure  of  the  visible  sphere.'  Here,  at 
least,  was  a  perfectly  intelligible  and  very  practical 


EMERSON  219 


message.  What  Wordsworth  did  by  his  example 
and  his  poetry,  Emerson  also  did  in  his  own  way. 
He  furnished  his  own  countrymen  with  a  much- 
needed  illustration  of  the  beauty  of  plain  living  and 
high  thinking.  He  was  never  wealthy  ;  in  his  early 
career  he  must  have  been  poor.  He  followed  the 
profession  of  a  public  lecturer  in  a  day  when  it  was 
not  the  well-paid  profession  that  it  now  is.  His 
books  for  many  years  had  an  extremely  limited 
circulation.  Nor  was  Concord  the  place  of  exquisite 
loveliness  that  it  appeared  in  Emerson's  eyes ; 
clearly  not  one  of  those  rare  combinations  of  natural 
beauty  which  reconcile  a  man  to  poverty,  as  the 
daily  vision  of  the  Lake  District  reconciled  Words- 
worth to  a  cottage.  But  it  contented  Emerson. 
He  lived  in  it  like  a  sage  ;  wrote  about  it  like  a 
poet.  The  philosophic  axioms  of  Emerson  may 
lose  their  force,  and  be  neglected  ;  it  is  not  possible 
to  neglect  his  poetry.  There  is  a  nameless  sweet- 
ness and  freshness  in  all  his  writings — a  sense  of  the 
elemental.  And  as  the  general  ways  of  life  become 
more  and  more  artificial,  and  the  general  interests  of 
mankind  more  material,  those  who  feel  the  unspeak- 
able baseness  of  our  later  civilisation  will  assuredly 
find  themselves  turning  to  Emerson,  and  in  him  will 
find  that  which  revives  the  sense  of  beauty,  in- 
vigorates the  virtue,  and  confers  healing  and  refresh- 
ment alike  on  mind  and  spirit. 

Emerson's  style  is  one  of  great  faults  and  great 
beauties.  It  has  sometimes  been  complained  that  it 
is  obscure,  but  this  is  a  contention  which  cannot  be 
sustained.  It  would  be  truer  to  say  that  it  is  frag- 
mentary, and  therefore  gives  the  occasional  impression 
of  confusion.     For  this  blemish  Emerson's  habits  of 


220  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

composition  are  to  blame.  He  rarely  worked  for  long 
in  his  study ;  he  preferred  the  solitude  of  the  woods. 
He  was  accustomed  to  keep  what  he  called  a  'Thought 
Book,'  and  this  book  accompanied  him  in  his  rambles. 
When  an  essay  was  to  be  written  the  book  was 
searched  for  material,  and,  as  Emerson  himself 
said,  his  gems  were  strung  together  like  beads  on  a 
thread.  This  frank  confession  is  entirely  corrobo- 
rated by  the  structure  of  his  essays.  There  is  no 
gradual  unfolding  of  thesis  and  argument ;  the  first 
sentence  is  a  paradox  as  likely  as  not.  The  para- 
graphs do  not  grow  out  of  one  another,  and  there  is 
little  continuity  in  the  thought.  But  each  paragraph, 
like  the  bead  upon  the  string,  has  a  particular  lustre 
and  colour  of  its  own.  No  writer  is  richer  in  epigram. 
Whatever  we  may  think  of  the  particular  truth  which 
he  is  enforcing,  the  manner  in  which  he  utters  it 
arrests  us. 

His  felicity  of  phrase  is  as  remarkable  as  Carlyle's 
felicity  of  epithet.  Such  a  phrase  as  '  Hitch  your 
waggon  to  a  star/  has  become  the  brief  summary  of 
all  that  is  meant  by  lofty  ideals  in  practical  action. 
Occasionally,  too,  there  are  passages  of  very  rare 
and  noble  eloquence.  His  meaning  is  never  in 
doubt ;  so  far  from  being  obscure  is  he,  that  as  a 
rule  he  is  astonishingly  luminous.  Upon  the  whole 
his  style  is  one  of  the  most  stimulating  in  literature. 
The  worst  that  can  be  said  of  it,  that  it  coruscates  a 
little  too  much;  but  those  who  have  suffered  much 
from  the  dull  tediousness  of  philosophic  authors  will 
not  count  that  a  fault.  A  certain  vivid  nimbleness, 
sometimes  reaching  restlessness,  is  characteristic  of 
the  American  intellect,  and  Emerson  is  distinctively 
American.     But  in  his  case  there  is  so  much  sound 


EMERSON  221 


scholarship,  such  broad  sanity  and  width  of  view, 
such  innermost  serenity  of  temper,  that  his  nimble- 
ness  of  mind  never  declines  into  a  fault.  It  is  what 
Carlyle  called  it,  'soft  electricity,'  bathing  great 
heights  and  depths  of  solid  experience.  It  is  only 
a  captious  criticism  which  will  blame  Emerson 
because  he  did  not  possess  the  gift  of  stateliness 
and  sobriety  which  characterises  the  older  prose 
writers ;  the  outstanding  fact  is  that  he  invented  a 
style  of  his  own,  absolutely  fitted  to  his  own  mode 
of  thought,  thoroughly  pungent,  individual,  and 
original,  and  capable  of  much  detached  brilliance 
and  real  eloquence. 

In  spirit  Emerson  was  never  less  than  noble,  in 
temper  never  less  than  hopeful.  Even  the  great 
cataclysm  of  the  American  War  did  not  for  an 
instant  dim  his  hope.  It  drew  from  him  one  of  his 
noblest  verses — 

'  So  nigh  is  grandeur  to  our  dust, 
So  near  is  God  to  man, 
When  Duty  whispers  low,  Thou  must, 
The  youth  replies,  /  can.' 

When  it  was  all  over  it  was  his  also  to  say  the 
wisest  word  about  it :  '  Everybody  has  been  wrong 
in  his  guess,  except  good  women,  who  never  despair 
of  an  ideal  Right.  ...  I  shall  always  respect  war 
hereafter.  The  waste  of  life,  the  dreary  havoc  of 
comfort  and  time,  are  overpaid  by  the  vistas  it  opens 
of  Eternal  Life,  Eternal  Law,  reconstructing  and 
upholding  Society.' 

The  spirit  of  his  own  life  cannot  be  better  ex- 
pressed than  in  his  own  fine  lines : — 

'  Revere  the  Maker,  fetch  thine  eye 
Up  to  His  style,  and  manners  of  the  sky, 


222  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

Not  of  adamant  and  gold 

Built  He  heaven,  stark  and  cold. 

Built  of  tears  and  sacred  flames, 
And  virtue  reaching  to  its  aims  ; 
Built  of  furtherance  and  pursuing, 
Not  of  spent  deeds,  but  of  doing. 
House  and  tenant  go  to  ground, 
Lost  in  God,  in  Godhead  found. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

JAMES   ANTHONY   FROUDE 

[Born  April  13th,  1818.  First  two  volumes  of  History  of  England, 
from  the  Fall  of  Wolsey  to  the  Defeat  of  the  Spanish  Armada,  pub- 
lished 1856  ;  completed  in  1869.  Short  Studies  on  Great  Subjects, 
essays  appearing  between  1867  and  1882.  Ccesar;  a  Sketch,  1879. 
Life  of  Carlyle,  4  vols.,  1882-84.  Life  of  Erasmus,  1894.  Died 
Oct.  26,  1894.] 

THE  tradition  of  Macaulay  was  maintained,  though 
upon  a  much  inferior  scale,  by  a  writer  of  great 
versatility  and  romantic  instinct,  James  Anthony 
Froude.  Educated  at  Westminster  School  and  sub- 
sequently at  Oxford,  the  son  of  an  Archdeacon  of 
competent  fortune,  he  may  be  said  to  have  inherited 
a  certain  traditional  view  of  society  from  which  he 
never  wholly  freed  himself.  His  intellect  was  eager 
rather  than  acute ;  he  knew  how  to  doubt,  but  not 
how  to  doubt  men's  doubts  away  ;  he  could  discover 
a  fallacy,  but  often  in  exposing  it  fell  into  a  worse 
fallacy;  great  talent  he  had,  and  a  quite  unusual 
power  of  stating  old  positions  with  freshness  and 
novelty,  but  the  power  of  original  thought,  and  the 
serene  temerity  of  genius  which  thinks  for  itself,  was 
denied  him.  If  he  was  not  in  the  true  sense  a  great 
writer,  it  was  because  he  was  not  in  any  sense  a  great 
man  ;  yet  his  work  possesses  so  many  high  qualities 
of  literature,  that  it  is  impossible  to  deny  him  rank 
among  the  chief  writers  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

His  first  trial  of  literature  was  unfortunate.     At 

223 


224  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

Oxford  he  soon  came  under  the  influence  of  New- 
man, for  whom  he  professed  then  and  always  the 
warmest  admiration.  Probably  the  best  qualities  of 
his  own  style — lucidity,  ease  and  eloquence — were 
derived  from  Newman.  Newman  set  his  promising 
pupil  to  work  on  writing  some  of  the  Lives  of  the 
E?iglish  Saints,  an  occupation  of  which  he  soon  tired. 
'  St.  Patrick  I  found,'  he  says,  '  once  lighted  a  fire 
with  icicles ;  changed  a  Welsh  marauder  into  a  wolf, 
and  floated  to  Ireland  on  an  altar  stone.  I  thought 
it  nonsense.  .  .  .  After  a  short  experiment  I  had  to 
retreat  out  of  my  occupation,  and  let  the  series  go 
on  without  me.'  He  retreated  out  of  the  Oxford 
movement  and  all  vital  association  with  Newman  at 
the  same  time.  The  fact  appears  to  be  that  he  had 
never  had  any  real  sympathy  with  the  movement ;  he 
was  of  much  too  cold  a  temperament  to  indorse  a 
propaganda  of  any  sort.  At  heart  he  was  a  trimmer. 
He  wished  to  combine  rationalism  with  orthodoxy, 
to  maintain  a  free  mind  on  theological  questions, 
and  yet  retain  a  fellowship  which  implied  in  its 
holder  assent  to  a  definite  creed.  His  Nemesis  of 
Faith,  published  in  1848,  deals  with  these  questions. 
It  is  a  book  long  since  forgotten,  and  quite  unworthy 
of  revival ;  but  it  has  a  certain  biographical  interest, 
especially  when  we  remember  that  it  was  the  success 
of  this  book  which  first  turned  the  thoughts  of 
Froude  towards  literature  as  a  profession. 

The  Nemesis  of  Faith  was  in  form  a  novel,  and  for 
some  time  Froude  cultivated  fiction,  but  without  suc- 
cess. One  of  his  stories,  The  Lieutenant's  Daughter, 
is  peculiarly  mawkish  in  sentiment  and  nauseous 
in  substance.  It  would  not  be  worth  mention  but 
for  the  circumstance  that  Froude  was  twenty-nine 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE  225 

when  it  was  published,  an  age  at  which  most  robust 
natures  have  worked  out  the  fermenting  crudities  of 
youth.     Left  to  himself  it  is  exceedingly  doubtful  if 
Froude  would  ever  have  worked  himself  free  of  these 
crudities,  and  have  become  an  efficient  man  of  letters. 
His  mind  was  essentially  imitative  and  susceptible, 
lacking  initiation,  but  quick  to  follow  a  path  opened 
by  another.     Once  he  had  followed  the  initiative  of 
Newman,  now  he  was  to  find  a  more  potent  master 
in  Carlyle.     It  is  curious  to  note,  however,  that  he 
was  much  too  conventional  in  mind  to  discover  the 
greatness  of  Carlyle  for  himself.     Carlyle's  French 
Revolutio7i  came  in  his  way,  and  he  read  it,  wondering 
at  it,  and  candidly  confessing  that,  like  the  rest  of 
the  world,  he  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  it.     It 
was  John   Sterling  who  first  explained  to  him   its 
significance,  and  led  him  to  appreciate,  in   part  at 
least,  the  greatness  of  Carlyle.     In  part  only,  how- 
ever ;  for  as  we  shall  see  later,  Froude  never  formed 
a  just  estimate   of  the    man   whom   he  afterwards 
calumniated  in  the  most  mendacious  biography  of 
modern  literature.     But  there  is  no  reason  to  doubt 
that  his  appreciation   of  Carlyle,  as  far  as  it  went, 
was  sincere.     All  that  Froude  became,  as  man  of 
letters,  was  the  work  of  Carlyle.    Many  of  his  original 
faults  remained  to  the  end,  and  in  increased  viru- 
lency  ;  but  whatever  there  was  of  virtue  in  the  man 
and  in  his  writings,  he  derived  it  from  Carlyle.   Essen- 
tially a  man  who  needed  a  master,  who  never  had, 
nor  could  have,  sufficient  efficacy  of  genius  to  start 
an  independent  course,  Froude  in  the  most  critical 
moment  of  his  life  exchanged  Newman  for  Carlyle, 
and  never  did  literary  man  make  a  more  fortunate 
or  fruitful  exchange. 

P 


226  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

In  1856  the  first  volume  of  Froude's  History 
appeared.  How  far  the  views  of  Carlyle  inspired 
the  views  of  Froude  in  his  treatment  of  his  great 
theme,  it  is  of  course  impossible  to  determine,  but  it 
is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  Froude  owed  something 
to  Carlyle,  and  certainly  more  than  he  ever  acknow- 
ledged. One  of  the  regrets  of  literature  must  be 
that  Carlyle  did  not  himself  deal  with  the  times  of 
Henry  vill.  and  Elizabeth,  instead  of  giving  the 
best  years  of  his  life,  and  his  powers  in  the  very  con- 
summation of  their  strength,  to  the  dreary  story  of 
Frederick  the  Great.  The  view  which  Froude  took 
of  Henry's  character  was  Carlyle's  view,  distinctly 
announced  years  before  the  first  volume  of  the  His- 
tory was  published.  '  Henry,'  said  Carlyle  once,  in 
conversation  with  Sir  C.  G.  Duffy,  '  when  we  come 
to  consider  the  circumstances  he  had  to  deal  with, 
would  be  seen  to  be  one  of  the  best  kings  England 
had  ever  got.  He  had  the  right  stuff  in  him  for  a 
king — he  knew  his  own  mind ;  a  patient,  resolute, 
decisive  man,  one  could  see,  who  understood  what 
he  wanted,  which  was  the  first  condition  of  success 
in  any  enterprise,  and  by  what  method  to  bring  it 
about.  .  .  .  He  was  a  true  ruler  at  the  time  when  the 
will  of  the  Lord's  Anointed  counted  for  something, 
and  it  was  likely  that  he  did  not  regard  himself  as 
doing  wrong  in  any  of  those  things  over  which 
modern  sentimentality  grew  so  impatient'  This 
is  the  real  thesis  of  Froude's  History,  elaborated 
with  great  skill,  frequent  eloquence,  and  much  viva- 
cious energy.  The  book  is  in  every  respect  a  brilliant 
piece  of  work.  In  the  art  of  word-painting  Froude 
is  a  master.  When  he  comes  to  certain  central 
episodes,  such  as  the  story  of  the  Armada,  he  rises 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE  227 

into  a  species  of  easy  epic  power.  He  marshals  his 
facts  with  the  care  of  a  consummate  stage-manager, 
knows  how  to  give  colour  and  splendour  to  the  page, 
is  never  confused  or  dull,  works  steadily  toward  the 
true  dramatic  crisis,  and  invariably  leaves  us  with 
the  impression  that  the  pageant  could  not  have  been 
better  staged.  Other  contemporary  historians,  such 
as  Freeman  and  Gardiner,  brought  to  bear  upon  the 
problems  of  history  a  patient  and  acute  faculty  of 
investigation  of  which  Froude  showed  hardly  a  trace  ; 
but  in  power  of  easy,  picturesque,  and  dramatic 
narrative,  Froude  easily  distanced  his  rivals.  His 
temperament  is  essentially  that  of  the  Romancist. 
He  is  always  in  search  of  large  effects,  pictorial 
situations,  sharp  and  striking  contrasts.  Thus,  what- 
ever may  be  said  as  to  the  truth  of  his  History,  it  is 
impossible  to  deny  its  charm  ;  history  in  the  accurate 
sense  of  the  term  it  may  not  be,  but  it  is  certainly 
literature. 

In  his  own  way,  and  according  to  his  lights,  no 
doubt  Froude  tried  to  write  accurate  history,  and 
thought  that  he  had  done  so,  but  the  fact  of  the 
matter  was  that  his  methods  of  work  were  much  too 
hasty  and  slovenly  to  attain  even  moderate  accuracy 
of  statement  on  matters  where  a  great  mass  of 
evidence  had  to  be  sifted.  No  one  can  expect 
absolute  accuracy  in  a  historian,  but  we  have  a 
right  to  expect  the  most  patient  and  judicial  exami- 
nation of  evidence  before  conclusions  are  pronounced. 
Carlyle  possessed  in  a  degree,  immeasurably  beyond 
Froude,  the  art  of  word-painting,  the  instinct  of 
pictorial  grouping,  but  he  never  sacrificed  truth  to 
effect.  Every  student  of  Carlyle's  life  knows  what 
incredible  pains  he  took  to  get  at  the  exact  truth 


228  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

about  things  ;  and  thus  it  happens  that  while  many 
other  writers  have  since  traversed  the  ground  he 
took,  and  the  opportunities  of  historical  research 
have  been  greatly  increased  since  his  day,  scarcely 
one  of  his  facts  has  been  seriously  impugned. 
Brilliant  in  everyway  as  Carlyle's  historical  tableaux 
are,  yet  they  are  not  less  brilliant  than  veracious, 
and  in  this  combination  of  the  highest  imaginative 
powers,  with  an  infinite  capacity  of  dull,  steady 
drudgery,  of  painstaking  digging  and  delving  after 
the  least  grain  of  authentic  truth,  Carlyle  is  unique. 

But  this  species  of  laborious  industry  was  not  at 
all  in  the  way  of  Froude.  Carlyle  was  essentially 
a  student ;  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  term,  Froude 
was  nothing  of  the  kind.  He  has  told  us  that  he 
consulted  400,000  references  in  the  preparation  of 
the  History ;  no  doubt  he  did  so,  but  with  what 
degree  of  care  ?  Perhaps  the  question  is  best 
answered  in  a  single  incident.  One  of  the  greatest 
figures  in  Elizabethan  history  is  Burleigh,  and  on 
one  occasion  Froude  was  invited  to  stay  at  Hatfield, 
in  order  that  he  might  exhaustively  examine  the 
great  mass  of  Cecil  papers  preserved  there,  and  at 
that  time  accessible  nowhere  else.  Froude  accepted 
the  invitation,  and  stayed  a  single  day !  In  the 
same  way  the  executors  of  Lord  Beaconsfield  invited 
him  to  examine  the  papers  of  the  deceased  statesman 
before  writing  his  brief  biography,  and  he  was  con- 
tent with  what  he  could  discover  in  a  visit  extending 
from  Saturday  to  Monday.  If  the  400,000  references 
for  the  History  were  gone  through  at  this  rate,  there 
is  not  much  in  the  boast  which  is  calculated  to  assure 
the  reader  of  the  accuracy  of  the  narrative.  But  all 
that   has    been  written  of  Froude   since   his  death 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE  229 

goes  to  prove  how  rooted  and  invincible  was  his 
incapacity  of  taking  pains.  Scholars  who  read  his 
vivacious  sketch  of  C&sar  perceived  at  once  that  he 
had  read  very  few  of  Cicero's  letters,  and  none  of 
them  properly ;  men  of  the  world,  who  knew  the 
life  and  institutions  of  the  West  Indies,  discovered 
in  the  first  pages  of  Froude's  Oceana,  that  he  had 
never  really  seen  things  for  himself,  nor  had  even 
tried  to  understand  them.  A  novel  may  be  written 
without  a  close  examination  of  facts,  so  long  as  it 
is  inherently  and  artistically  probable  ;  but  history 
depends  for  its  value  on  its  truth.  Froude  wrote 
history  in  the  spirit  of  the  novelist.  As  long  as 
things  looked  artistically  probable,  he  thought  little 
of  essential  veracity.  He  was  either  too  indolent, 
or  too  prepossessed  by  certain  views  which  he  wished 
to  uphold,  or  too  indifferent  to  truth,  to  take  ordinary 
pains  to  make  the  structure  of  his  narrative  secure 
against  collapse  or  assault. 

But  this  is  not  all.  Not  to  examine  one's  facts  is 
a  bad  thing,  but  to  pervert  them  is  a  still  worse. 
There  can  be  little  doubt  that  the  habit  of  Froude's 
mind  was  casuistic ;  and  when  you  unite  gross  careless- 
ness with  a  manifest  determination  to  prove  a  case 
at  all  costs,  truth  is  rapidly  reduced  to  a  minus 
quantity.  That  Froude  purposely  or  consciously 
perverted  facts  seems  improbable.  The  errors  of 
a  radically  inaccurate  mind  owe  nothing  to  volition. 
The  man  in  ordinary  life  who  has  never  accustomed 
himself  to  strict  accuracy  of  statement  makes  mis- 
statements without  the  least  sense  of  the  gravity  of 
his  offence.  It  would  be  unjust  to  accuse  him  of 
lying  since  he  is  incapable  of  truth.  Every  one 
knows    how   extremely  difficult    it    is    to   get   some 


230  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

children  to  tell  the  exact  truth  upon  a  matter  of 
fact ;  either  by  excess  of  imagination  or  by  lack  of 
logical  faculty,  they  invariably  and  quite  uncon- 
sciously over-colour  or  distort  anything  which  they 
report  as  fact.  The  same  thing  is  constantly  seen 
in  the  witness-box.  Men  who  have  looked  upon 
the  same  occurrence  report  it  from  totally  divergent 
standpoints.  In  such  a  case  no  one  accuses  the 
witness  of  direct  lying,  though  you  may  rightly 
accuse  him  of  incapacity  of  truth.  It  is  probable 
that  very  few  persons  ever  speak  exact  truth.  It  is 
only  the  highly-trained  judicial  mind  that  is  capable 
of  seeing  things  without  distortion,  and  in  cases 
where  matters  of  fact  are  in  dispute,  the  last  word, 
as  in  a  law-case,  is  always  with  the  judge,  because  the 
judicial  mind  is  a  mind  disciplined  to  the  highest 
degree  in  habits  of  precision.  But  Froude's  intellect 
was  not  judicial :  habits  of  precise  thought  he  had 
never  formed,  and  consequently  the  power  of  precise 
statement  was  not  possible  to  him. 

These  are  no  doubt  grave  accusations,  but  they 
are  capable  of  ample  proof.  A  capital  instance  of 
Froude's  habitual  inaccuracy  is  his  Life  of  Erasmus. 
This  is  one  of  his  most  delightful  productions, 
judged  merely  from  the  literary  standpoint.  It  has 
all  the  romantic  verve  and  freshness  of  a  novel,  and 
the  picture  of  Erasmus  himself  is  singularly  lifelike. 
If  the  book  purported  to  be  what  Charles  Reade's 
famous  novel  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth  is — a 
romance  of  the  times  of  Erasmus,  it  would  deserve 
the  highest  praise  ;  but  as  serious  history  it  is  open 
to  the  gravest  criticism.  Take,  for  example,  the 
translations  of  the  letters  of  Erasmus.  No  one 
can  read  them  without  becoming  conscious  of  the 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE  231 

note  of  extreme  'modernity'  which  distinguishes 
them.  Making  allowance  for  theme  and  matter, 
they  are  just  such  epistles  as  might  have  been  written 
by  a  gay,  brilliant,  scholarly,  cynical  man  of  the 
world  in  the  close  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Even 
the  style  is  modern  ;  the  sentences  are  short,  sharp, 
full  of  antitheses,  so  that  the  ordinary  reader  with 
a  slight  knowledge  of  the  classics  will  wonder  how 
such  a  style  was  possible  in  a  language  so  ponderous 
and  inflexible  as  the  Latin — especially  the  Latin  of 
the  Middle  Ages.  The  explanation  is  quite  simple  ; 
the  letters  have  been  rewritten  by  Froude.  Mr. 
Lilly,  himself  a  competent  scholar,  says  that  in 
these  'translations'  he  found  on  every  page  'dis- 
tortions ' — more  or  less  gross,  sometimes  very  gross 
— of  Erasmus'  meaning  ;  things  attributed  to  him 
directly  contrary  to  what  he  really  wrote  ;  things  of 
which  the  Latin  presents  no  trace  at  all.  It  is  pre- 
cisely this  distortion  of  meaning  of  which  Froude's 
critics  have  complained.  Mr.  Lilly  calls  Froude  an 
'  unscrupulous  advocate.'  It  would  be  nearer  the 
truth  to  call  him  an  unscrupulous  artist. 

A  work  which  lies  better  within  the  critical  com- 
petence of  the  ordinary  reader  is  Froude's  biography 
of  Carlyle.  In  this  case  the  groundwork  of  fact  is 
within  common  knowledge.  How  far  Froude  mis- 
interpreted Erasmus  is  a  question  for  scholars ;  how 
far  he  misinterpreted  Carlyle  is  a  question  which 
can  be  referred  to  many  persons  who  knew  Carlyle 
much  more  intimately  than  he  did. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  about  the  verdict.  There 
is  scarcely  one  cardinal  fact  about  Carlyle's  life 
which  is  rightly  stated  in  Froude's  biography.  Thus 
he  speaks  constantly  of  Jane  Welsh  as  an  heiress;  her 


232  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

modest  fortune  was  about  £200  per  annum,  which 
she  did  not  touch  until  after  her  mother's  death. 
He  speaks  of  her  marriage  with  Carlyle  as  an 
1  unheard  -  of  mesalliance '  which  was  the  '  scoff  of 
Edinburgh  society ' :  Jane  Welsh  was  unknown  in 
Edinburgh  society ;  her  marriage  was  not  discussed 
in  it :  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  country  doctor,  and 
her  only  claim  to  distinction  was  that  she  married 
Carlyle.  He  speaks  of  Craigenputtock  as  a  place  of 
dreary  banishment,  where  a  delicate  woman  was 
tortured  by  the  whims  of  a  brutal  husband ;  the  facts 
are  that  the  Carlyles  went  to  Craigenputtock  with 
the  full  assent  of  Mrs.  Carlyle's  mother,  they  neither 
of  them  regarded  it  as  banishment,  they  lived  upon 
delightful  terms,they  thoroughly  enjoyed  the  Craigen- 
puttock life,  and  never  made  serious  complaint  of  it. 
He  speaks  of  the  Chelsea  life  as  though  its  chief 
characteristic  were  incessant  bickering,  varied  by 
hot  explosions  of  anger  on  the  part  of  Carlyle,  all  of 
which  was  meekly  borne  by  a  drudging,  patient  wife  ; 
the  fact  was  that  Mrs.  Carlyle  was  the  least  patient 
of  women,  that  what  Froude  took  for  bickering  was 
merely  the  exchange  of  those  pleasant  ironies  and 
railleries  which  are  not  uncommon  between  brilliant 
people  who  love  one  another,  and  that,  as  the  pub- 
lished correspondence  of  husband  and  wife  con- 
clusively proves,  no  persons  ever  loved  each  other 
more  tenderly  than  these  two.  He  draws  a  tragic 
picture  of  Carlyle's  remorse  for  his  wife  after  her 
death  ;  the  fact  is,  that  the  chief  passage  on  which 
all  this  fine  dramatic  situation  is  based  is  one 
in  which  Carlyle,  with  that  morbid  sensitiveness 
common  to  bereaved  love,  searches  his  memory  to 
discover  how  he  might  have  behaved  more  kindly  to 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE  233 

the  dead,  and  can  discover  nothing  worse  than  this, 
that  he  once  did  not  enter  a  milliner's  shop  with  her 
when  she  went  to  buy  a  bonnet,  although  by  her 
glance  he  saw  that  she  would  have  been  pleased  had 
he  done  so !  But  it  is  impossible  in  a  paragraph  to 
unravel  all  the  mystifications,  refute  all  the  calumnies, 
correct  all  the  distortions  of  this  most  mendacious 
of  biographies.  Even  in  the  mere  printing  of  docu- 
ments and  letters  the  errors  are  beyond  belief.  In 
one  letter  of  Mrs.  Carlyle's  which  describes  her  life 
at  Craigenputtock,  there  are  eighty  errors  of  the 
press  in  fifty-eight  lines.  Professor  Norton,  one  of 
the  most  careful  editors  of  Carlyle's  letters,  has 
shown  that  in  a  biography  of  nineteen  hundred 
pages,  the  errors  greatly  exceed  the  number  of  the 
pages.  Phrases  and  incidents  are  constantly  mis- 
reported.  The  phrase  'gey  ill  to  live  wi','  of  which 
so  much  is  made,  should  be  'gey  ill  to  deal  wi" 
(mother's  allocution  to  me  once,  in  some  un- 
reasonable moment  of  mine,  says  Carlyle),  and  in 
its  authentic  form,  and  with  Carlyle's  comment,  the 
impression  is  totally  changed.  Episodes  which  were 
really  humorous,  and  were  so  felt  and  described  by 
Carlyle  and  his  wife,  are  related  with  intense 
solemnity  as  proofs  of  the  foregone  conclusion  that 
Carlyle  was  too  dense  to  apprehend,  too  insensitive 
to  sympathise  with  the  infirmities  of  his  wife.  If 
the  book  were  a  novel,  we  may  say  again,  as  we  said 
of  the  life  of  Erasmus,  it  would  be  admirable  ;  but  as 
the  serious  biography  of  a  very  great  man  it  is 
wholly  disgraceful  to  its  author,  a  monument  of 
slovenly  book-making,  bad  taste,  and  unconscious 
mendacity. 

Perhaps  it  would  have  been   better  for  Froudc's 


234  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

fame  if,  after  all,  he  had  stuck  to  the  romantic  novel. 
But  even  when  all  deductions  are  made — and  with 
no  writer  of  the  nineteenth  century  are  the  deduc- 
tions so  many  and  so  grave — it  must  be  admitted 
that  Froude's  place  in  literature  is  considerable. 
Posterity  forgives  much  to  the  stylist,  and  Froude 
was  a  stylist.  In  matters  of  fact  he  was  slovenly, 
but  rarely  so  in  style.  He  had  a  quite  genuine 
sense  of  the  greatness  of  England,  and  hence  there 
is  sincerity  as  well  as  epic  beauty  and  glow  in  his 
narratives.  Nor  was  he  destitute  of  convictions ; 
he  believed  in  the  fundamentals  of  Protestantism, 
and  in  the  main  he  apprehended  them  rightly.  Of 
all  his  writings,  the  Short  Studies  on  Great  Subjects 
is  the  most  popular,  and  it  is  a  deserved  popularity. 
In  the  historical,  or  semi-historical  essay,  he  was  at 
his  best.  Nothing  was  more  congenial  to  his  art 
than  vignette-painting ;  brief,  vivid,  swiftly-etched 
portraits  of  men,  descriptions  of  sea-fights,  or  records 
of  manners.  These  vignettes,  at  once  delicate  and 
delightful,  are  apparently  produced  without  effort, 
and  this  is  one  of  the  chief  elements  of  their  charm. 
In  lucidity,  ease,  life,  movement,  and  a  certain  un- 
strained felicity,  Froude's  style  is  remarkable,  and  as 
long  as  style  is  valued,  Froude  is  sure  of  his  audience. 
If  the  sole  aim  of  literature  were  to  give  pleasure, 
Froude  might  claim  the  highest  place  among  modern 
writers  ;  but  in  the  species  of  work  which  he  under- 
took, truth  ranks  higher  than  artistic  felicity,  and  it 
is  his  imperfect  apprehension  of  truth  which  spoils 
his  fame.  If  we  have  charity  enough  to  make  due 
allowance  for  this  infirmity,  we  may  still  find  it 
possible  to  rank  him,  if  not  with  the  great  writers, 
yet  among  the  chief;  if  not  among  the  masters,  yet 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE  235 

at  a  great  height  above  the  mere  professionals  ;  if 
not  among  those  who  have  added  something  to  the 
world's  thought,  or  invigorated  the  world's  life,  yet 
among  those  who,  by  virtue  of  a  fine  style,  have 
added  something  to  the  treasures  of  the  language, 
and  much  to  the  pleasures  of  literature. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

JOHN    RUSKIN 

[Born  in  London,  Feb.  8th,  1819.  Took  his  degree  at  Oxford,  1842. 
First  volume  of  Modern  Painters  published,  1 843.  Seven  Lamps  of 
Architecture,  1849.  The  Stones  of  Venice,  1851-53.  The  Two 
Paths,  1854.  The  Elements  of  Drawing,  1857.  The  Elements  of 
Perspective,  1859.  Among  his  most  popular  smaller  books  are  : 
7^i?  Crown  of  Wild  Olive,  Sesame  and  The  Lilies,  The  Queen  of 
the  Air,  Ethics  of  the  Dust,  Until  this  Last,  which  he  has  called 
his  best  work.  Fors  Clavigera,  a  series  of  letters,  published  with 
index,  1887.     Still  living  at  Brantwood,  Coniston.] 

It  is  the  prophetic  force  of  Carlyle  which  is  his  most 
remarkable  quality,  as  we  have  seen,  and  the  secret 
of  his  abiding  influence :  it  is  also  the  primal  and 
distinctive  gift  of  Ruskin.  In  poetry,  Wordsworth 
and  Shelley  represent  this  force  ;  in  history,  Carlyle  ; 
in  social  economics,  Ruskin.  The  prophet  is  the 
summed-up  soul  and  conscience  of  a  community,  the 
emblem  and  the  fountain  of  its  moral  life.  He 
derives  nothing  from  convention  ;  he  speaks  out  of 
his  own  strength  and  originality  of  nature,  with  the 
vehemence,  and  even  anger,  of  great  convictions,  and 
with  an  amplitude  of  utterance  which  scorns  details 
in  its  passion  for  principles.  It  is  above  all  things 
his  business  to  see  ;  then  to  speak  of  what  he  sees 
with  unfaltering  sincerity,  addressing  himself  to  his 
fellows  in  such  a  way  as  to  reveal  to  them  their  own 

236 


JOHN  RUSK  IN  237 


deficiencies ;  finally  to  inspire  in  them  a  desire  of 
reformation,  and  of  all  noble  progress  and  accom- 
plishment. This  has  been  the  lifelong  mission  of 
Ruskin. 

It  has  been,  however,  a  mission  very  much  mis- 
apprehended. Tolstoi  has  affirmed  that  Ruskin  is 
one  of  the  greatest  men  of  the  age,  and  has  said  that 
it  pained  him  to  notice  that  English  people  generally 
were  of  a  different  opinion.  The  fact  of  the  matter 
is  that  England  has  never  quite  known  how  to  take 
Ruskin. 

He  presents  a  character  of  so  many  subtleties  and 
variations,  so  tremulously  poised  between  common 
sense  and  eccentricity,  so  clear  and  firm  in  outline, 
yet  touched  with  such  deceptive  lights  and  shadows, 
and  capable  of  such  extraordinary  transformations, 
that  average  opinion  has  preferred  to  accept  him  as  a 
great  stylist  rather  than  a  great  man.  He  is  by 
turns  reactionary  and  progressive,  simple  and 
shrewd,  a  mystic  and  a  man  of  practical  affairs.  He 
has  bewildered  men  by  the  very  brilliance  of  his 
versatility.  No  sooner  has  the  world  owned  him  as 
the  prince  of  art-critics  than  he  sets  up  as  the  ex- 
ponent of  a  new  political  economy.  He  will  show  us 
how  to  weave  cloth  honestly  as  well  as  to  draw 
truly  ;  how  to  build  character,  as  a  matter  of  greater 
import  even  than  the  building  of  a  Venice ;  and  he 
who  is  an  authority  on  Botticelli  must  needs  also  be 
an  authority  on  drains.  He  links  together  in  the 
strangest  fashion  the  remotest  things — philosophy 
and  agriculture,  theology  and  sanitation,  the  manner 
of  a  man's  life  and  the  quality  of  his  pictures.  It  is 
this  very  variety  and  exuberance  of  mind  which  has 
kept    the  estimate    of  his    genius    low    among    his 


238  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

countrymen.  They  have  not  been  able  to  follow  the 
nimbleness  of  his  thought,  and  to  perceive  that, 
eccentric  as  it  seems,  it  moves  in  a  precisely 
ordered  orbit.  The  last  thing  that  the  English 
reader  would  say  of  Ruskin  is  that  he  sees  life 
steadily,  and  he  sees  it  whole ;  yet  that  is  the 
very  thing  that  Tolstoi  would  say  of  him,  and  he 
would  add  that  therein  lies  his  claim  to  be  a  great 
man. 

And  in  such  a  contention  Tolstoi  would  be  right ; 
the  cardinal  fact  about  Ruskin  is  that  he  sees  life 
steadily  and  sees  it  whole.  This  is  the  explanation 
of  the  immense  variety  of  theme  in  his  writings ;  it 
springs  from  width  of  vision.  If  he  had  seen  life 
only  in  some  one  special  aspect,  as,  for  example,  in 
its  relation  to  art  alone,  which  is  commonly  supposed 
to  be  his  one  function,  the  critics  would  at  once  have 
known  how  to  rank  him.  There  would  have  been  no 
hesitation  as  to  the  place  that  was  his  by  right.  But 
when  he  links  art  with  morality,  when  he  sets  him- 
self to  the  discovery  of  the  principles  by  which  art  is 
great,  and  finds  them  to  be  also  the  only  verified 
principles  by  which  life  is  also  great,  then  criticism 
becomes  purblind  and  embarrassed.  It  was  pre- 
pared to  praise  the  critic  of  art,  but  the  critic  of  life 
is  a  very  different  matter.  Hence  there  arises  the 
natural  tendency  on  the  part  of  the  reader  to  regard 
the  opinions  of  Ruskin  as  eccentric,  but  their  ex- 
pression as  perfect — to  value  him  as  a  master  of 
literary  expression,  but  not  as  a  teacher — to  agree,  in 
point  of  fact,  that  he  is  a  great  writer,  but  to  deny 
the  contention  of  Tolstoi  that  he  is  a  great  man.  It 
is  only  going  a  step  further  to  say  of  him,  as  it  was 
said  of  Goldsmith,  who   'wrote    like  an  angel   but 


JOHN  RUSK  IN  239 


talked  like  poor  Poll,'  that  Ruskin  writes  nonsense, 
but  writes  it  beautifully.  That  this  is  the  general 
opinion  of  English  readers,  no  one  would  venture  to 
say ;  but  having  regard  to  the  general  praise  of  the 
beauty  of  his  style,  and  the  general  contempt  of  the 
social  principles  he  enunciates,  one  can  see  without 
difficulty  what  it  is  Tolstoi  meant  when  he  called 
him  a  great  man,  and  deplored  that  his  countrymen 
held  a  different  opinion. 

The  personal  history  of  Ruskin  is  the  history  of 
his  writings.  No  youth  ever  began  life  with  less 
likelihood  of  prophetic  development.  He  was  the 
petted,  if  not  spoiled,  child  of  wealthy  parents.  He 
begins  his  long  use  of  the  pen  by  the  production  of 
merely  pretty  and  conventional  poems.  He  writes 
with  the  certainty  of  parental  praise,  and  without  the 
fear  of  parental,  or  any  other,  criticism.  He  has 
absolutely  no  acquaintance  with  the  hard  facts  of 
life,  such  as  drove  the  iron  deep  into  the  soul  of 
Carlyle,  and  taught  him  to  become  both  law  and 
impulse  to  himself.  No  youth  ever  stood  in  greater 
danger  of  a  life  of  mere  dilettanteism.  There  was 
no  urgency  to  win  his  bread  laid  upon  him,  no 
special  preparation  for  any  profession,  no  diligent 
training  with  a  view  to  the  toils  or  the  prizes 
of  a  career.  His  chief  tastes  are,  a  love  of  Nature, 
carefully  fed  by  early  and  extensive  travel  ; 
a  love  of  books,  developed  by  the  best  examples ; 
and  a  love  of  art,  which  his  possession  of  means 
enabled  him  to  gratify.  We  do  not  gather  from  any 
record  of  his  early  life  which  we  possess  any  sense  of 
great  robustness  either  of  mind  or  body.  His  youth 
was  threatened  by  consumption,  and  his  mind  was 
delicate    and    sensitive    rather    than     profound    or 


240  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

energetic.  There  is  even  the  trace  of  effeminacy  in 
in  this  early  Ruskin,  the  quite  natural  and  innocent 
effeminacy  of  a  childhood  sheltered  from  the  rough 
winds  of  life,  and  of  a  youth  that  flowers  into  man- 
hood, not  by  the  conquest  of  a  barren  soil,  but  by  the 
sedulous  assistance  of  exotic  horticulture.  As  com- 
pared with  Carlyle,  with  whom  he  stands  most 
closely  associated,  Ruskin  grows  in  a  hothouse, 
while  Carlyle  is  a  product  of  wild  moor  and  bleak 
hillside.  The  one  is  the  child  of  wealth,  the  other  of 
poverty ;  the  one  has  a  nature  rich  and  varied,  the 
other  remains  to  the  last  stern  and  narrow  as  the 
land  that  bore  him.  Any  more  unlikely  environ- 
ment for  a  prophet  than  Ruskin's  it  would  be 
difficult,  and  perhaps  impossible,  to  imagine. 

But  one  gift  Ruskin  had — the  rare  and  superb  gift 
of  fearless  sincerity,  and  it  was  this  gift  that  saved 
him  from  the  perils  of  dilettanteism  and  became  the 
dominant  force  in  the  shaping  of  his  life  and  genius. 
He  had  also  a  mind  of  the  keenest  analytic  quality, 
and  an  imagination  alike  virile  and  sensitive.  It 
was  natural  that  in  such  an  environment  as  his,  his 
genius  should  fix  itself  first  of  all  upon  the  study  of 
art.  What  was  art  ?  Was  it  merely  a  pleasant 
adornment  of  luxurious  life,  or  was  it  in  itself  an 
expression  of  life?  Was  its  true  aim  pleasure  or 
truth?  Ruskin  speedily  decided  that  art  was  serious 
and  not  frivolous,  that  it  had  a  vital  connection  with 
national  character,  and  that  its  one  great  mission 
was  truth.  He  began  to  train  himself  with  infinite 
industry  and  assiduity,  that  he  might  be  in  a  position 
to  judge  of  art  with  justice  and  knowledge.  He 
resolved  to  be  led  by  no  traditions,  but  simply  to 
allow  his  sincerity  of  temper  unimpeded  play,  and 


JOHN  RUSKIN  241 


to  abide  by  the  result.  The  discovery  of  the  germ 
in  which  all  his  future  teaching  of  art  lay  was  made 
almost  by  accident.  He  had  been  taught  in  sketch- 
ing foliage  to  generalise  it,  and  to  arrange  it  by 
arbitrary  rules  and  on  an  artificial  method.  One 
day  he  sketched  for  himself  a  tree-stem  with  ivy 
leaves  upon  it,  and  instantly  perceived  'how  much 
finer  it  was  as  a  piece  of  design  than  any  conventional 
re-arrangement  would  be.'  All  the  rules  of  artificial 
art  in  which  he  had  been  trained  perished  in  that 
simple  discovery.  He  saw  then  that  the  only  rule 
of  any  importance  to  the  artist  was,  '  Be  sincere  with 
Nature,  and  take  her  as  she  is,  neither  casually 
glancing  at  her  "  effects,"  nor  dully  labouring  at  her 
parts  with  the  intention  of  improving  and  blending 
them  into  something  better,  but  taking  her  all  in  all. 
On  the  other  hand,  be  sincere  with  yourself,  knowing 
what  you  truly  admire  and  painting  that,  refusing 
the  hypocrisy  of  any  "grand  style"  or  "high  art," 
just  as  much  as  you  refuse  to  pander  to  vulgar  tastes. 
And  then  vital  art  is  produced,  and,  if  the  workman 
be  a  man  of  great  powers,  great  art.'  He  had  found 
a  domain  which  hitherto  no  prophet  had  claimed 
or  touched.  The  mere  painting  of  pictures,  which 
to  men  of  a  narrower  mind,  a  less  refined  training, 
or  a  more  Puritan  temper,  might  have  seemed  a 
superfluity  of  luxurious  life,  without  relation  to  the 
more  serious  principles  of  conduct  or  the  progress  of 
society,  he  perceived  to  be  an  essential  element  of 
life  and  an  infallible  witness  to  character.  He  had  dis- 
covered 'that  art,  no  less  than  other  spheres  of  life,  had 
its  heroes ;  that  the  mainspring  of  their  energy  was 
Sincerity,  and  the  burden  of  their  utterance  Truth.' 
In  its  moral  aspects  this  principle  is  but  a  redis- 

Q 


242  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

covery  of  the  principle  of  Milton,  that  a  true  poet 
must  make  his  life  a  poem.  It  sounds  a  common- 
place, only  we  have  need  to  remember  that  nothing 
is  so  original  as  a  commonplace  when  it  is  genuinely 
believed.  But  it  was  not  a  commonplace  as  Ruskin 
uttered  it,  either  to  himself  or  the  world  he  sought  to 
instruct ;  so  far  from  this  was  it,  that  it  was  felt  to 
be  the  enunciation  of  a  new  and  revolutionary 
principle.  Art  was  in  those  days  in  peril  of  becoming 
a  mere  handicraft.  Its  rules  were  as  the  laws  of  the 
Medes  and  Persians,  which  altered  not.  Given  so 
many  rules,  you  produced  a  picture  with  the  mathe- 
matical certainty  by  which  two  and  two  make  four. 
Mediocre  pictures  were  produced  in  endless  progres- 
sion, each  as  like  to  each  as  though  they  had  been 
turned  out  of  a  factory.  The  greatest  and  most 
inspired  artist  of  his  day,  Turner,  was  the  object  of 
rancorous  ridicule,  because  he  was  outraging  the 
pedantic  traditions  of  artificial  picture-making. 
Ruskin  recalled  men  to  Nature  in  art  as  Words- 
worth did  in  poetry.  He  laid  down  the  rule  that 
it  was  the  business  of  the  artist  to  study  Nature 
with  humbleness  and  docility,  '  rejecting  nothing, 
selecting  nothing,  and  scorning  nothing.'  He  laid 
down  the  yet  harder  rule  that  the  character  of  the 
artist  has  more  to  do  with  the  making  of  his  art 
than  the  deftness  of  his  hand  ;  that  a  picture  is  the 
record  of  a  soul,  as  truly  as  of  some  fragment  of 
natural  phenomena  ;  the  rule  of  Milton,  in  fact,  that 
the  true  poem  is  the  product  of  the  true  life,  and  that 
great  art  is  impossible  to  the  man  of  mean  soul. 
On  those  two  principles  all  the  art  criticism  of 
Ruskin  is  based.  The  principle  of  the  return  to 
Nature  made  him  the  champion  of  Turner  against 


JOHN  R  US  KIN  243 


the  world  ;  and  later  on,  led  him  to  the  discovery 
of  the  pre-Raphaelites,  and  the  counsel  'to  paint 
things  as  they  probably  did  look  and  happen,  not 
as,  by  the  rules  of  art  developed  under  Raphael, 
they  might  be  supposed,  gracefully,  deliciously,  or 
sublimely,  to  have  happened.'  The  principle  of 
character  as  the  true  secret  of  art  led  him  to  the 
much  wider  field  of  his  later  literary  labours,  and 
the  fulfilment  of  his  true  prophetic  mission. 

I  have  associated,  and  in  part  contrasted,  Ruskin 
with  Carlyle,  and  it  is  a  contrast  which  he  himself 
sanctions,  since  he  has  declared  that  Carlyle  was  his 
master,  and  that  all  his  thinking  has  been  coloured 
by  Carlyle's  stronger  thought.  At  first  sight  the 
comparison  seems  unsustained  and  impossible,  for 
the  differences  between  the  two  men  are  clear  to  the 
most  casual  observation.  The  genius  of  Ruskin  is 
subtle,  while  Carlyle  lacks  subtlety ;  the  style  of 
Carlyle  is  chaotic,  while  Ruskin's  is  polished  to  the 
utmost  nicety  of  expression  ;  Carlyle  despised  art, 
and  Ruskin  adored  it ;  Carlyle  is  above  all  things  a 
humorist,  while  Ruskin  has  wit  and  satire,  but  no 
humour.  Each  has  vast  powers  of  pugnacity ;  but 
Carlyle  hurls  the  thunderbolt,  while  Ruskin  wields 
the  rapier.  One  has  the  energy  of  a  primeval  man, 
and  his  limitations  ;  the  other  is  the  fine  product  of 
a  special  culture.  Yet  in  moral  temper  they  are 
alike,  and  their  criticism  of  life  agrees.  Each  teaches, 
as  a  fundamental  truth,  that  the  first  duty  of  man  is 
to  take  care  of  facts,  and  that  principles  will  take 
care  of  themselves.  Each  delights  in  broad  and 
vivid  generalisation.  Each  is  in  violent  antagonism 
to  the  main  trend  of  the  age,  and  states  the  ground 
of  his  revolt  with  violence.      It   was  by  the    mere 


244  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

accident  of  environment  that  Ruskin  spent  the  first 
eagerness  of  his  genius  on  a  theme  that  Carlyle 
could  never  regard  as  serious  ;  criticism  of  art  was 
from  the  very  first,  with  him,  criticism  of  life ;  and 
as  his  genius  grew,  art  fell  behind  him,  and  life 
became  more  and  more. 

How  Ruskin  has  preached  the  gospel  of  sincerity 
with  a  force  inferior  only  to  Carlyle's,  and  with  a 
penetrating  beauty  of  phrase  all  his  own,  we  shall 
see  as  we  turn  to  his  works.  In  the  meantime  we 
should  remember  that,  however  wrong-headed  he 
may  seem  to  those  who  do  not  agree  with  him,  he 
has  practised  his  principles,  and  maintained  from 
first  to  last  an  uncompromising  sincerity.  He 
championed  Turner,  and  bought  his  pictures,  when 
Turner  was  utterly  neglected  by  both  the  patron 
and  the  public.  He  praised  work,  and  no  more 
laborious  life  than  his  has  been  lived  among  us.  He 
insists  on  a  mastery  of  facts,  and  no  artist  ever  put 
himself  through  a  more  strenuous  discipline  to  facts 
than  Ruskin,  before  he  considered  himself  competent 
to  pronounce  judgment  on  the  humblest  picture. 
He  has  advocated  a  wise  simplicity  of  life,  and  few 
lives  have  been  more  gracefully  austere  than  his. 
No  duty  has  been  too  humble,  if  commended  by  a 
sense  of  right ;  no  generosity  too  great,  if  it  served 
a  wise  purpose  or  a  public  need.  It  is  the  least  part 
of  his  benefactions  that  of  the  .£200,000  left  him  by 
his  father  every  penny  has  long  ago  been  given  away. 
He  has  given  what  is  more  than  money — himself, 
his  genius,  sympathy,  and  service,  as  a  willing 
sacrifice  to  his  countrymen  ;  and  thus  the  gospel  of 
sincerity  proclaimed  in  his  writings  has  been  made 
still  more  beautiful  and  convincing  by  his  life. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  TEACHING  OF  RUSKIN 

To  arrive  at  an  estimate  of  Ruskin's  temperament 
is  easy  ;  of  the  nature  and  scope  of  his  teaching  and 
philosophy  much  may  be  said.  In  his  art-criticism 
we  have  seen  that  Ruskin  lays  down  the  great 
principle  that  sincerity  is  the  main-spring  of  the 
artist's  energy,  and  the  burden  of  his  message  is 
truth.  It  may  be  said  that  such  a  definition  pre- 
cisely expresses  his  own  temper.  But  this  is  by  no 
means  an  inclusive  definition.  He  insists  also  with 
Keats,  that  truth  is  beauty,  beauty  is  truth  ;  and 
that  the  true  artist,  while  not  ignoring  the  facts  of 
ugliness,  will  feel  his  passion  going  out  perpetually 
toward  the  fairest  forms  and  richest  aspects  of  things. 
And  it  follows  still  further  that  if  truth  is  beauty, 
then  falsehood  is  ugliness  ;  and  wherever  there  exist 
things  that  are  repulsive  and  disgusting,  it  is  because 
of  some  outrage  on  truth,  or  some  fundamental 
error  which  an  exacter  conception  of  truth  would 
have  prevented. 

It  needs  no  great  wit  to  see  that  such  a  conclusion 
as  this  involves  every  species  of  social  and  moral  ques- 
tion. Let  it  be  applied  in  the  direction  of  art  itself, 
and  we  perceive  at  once  that  where  we  have  a  weakly 
sensational  or  a  morally  degraded  art — where  we 
have  even  less  than  this,  an  art  which  is  not  indeed 

246 


246  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

a  moral  offence,  but  is  artificial  and  mechanical,  de- 
stitute of  high  imagination  and  feeling,  wrong  in  its 
ideals  and  misguided  in  its  methods — it  is  simply  be- 
cause of  a  fault  or  deficiency  in  the  artist.  What  is 
that  fault  ?  It  is  lack  of  truth  and  nobleness  of  moral 
temper.  The  greatest  artists  have  not  always  been 
good  or  religious  men,  but  they  have  been  noble- 
minded  men.  Their  more  perfect  vision  of  beauty 
is  the  natural  result  of  their  profounder  love  of  truth. 
The  lower  school  of  Dutch  art  is  denounced  by 
Ruskin  on  this  very  ground  ;  it  lacks  beauty  entirely 
because  the  artists  lacked  the  fine  sense  of  truth. 
They  can  paint  the  coarse  revels  of  the  tavern  with 
a  certain  gross  realism,  but  if  they  had  been  less  of 
tavern  roysterers  themselves,  they  would  have  had 
higher  visions  of  truth,  and  so  would  have  painted 
things  that  were  beautiful  instead  of  things  that  are 
repulsive.  It  was  because  they  had  no  thoughts 
that  gave  them  any  noble  pleasure,  that  they  relied 
on  sensation  rather  than  imagination  for  the  materials 
of  their  art.  On  the  other  hand,  the  great  Italian 
masters  were  men  of  a  noble  moral  temper ;  they 
saw  the  higher  aspects  of  truth,  and  for  that  reason 
they  also  reached  a  peculiarly  noble  ideal  of  beauty. 
Bad  art  therefore  means  either  a  bad  age  or  an 
ignobly-minded  artist ;  or  it  may  mean  both — an 
age  that  is  itself  too  gross  to  attain  any  high  vision 
of  truth,  or  to  desire  it,  and  an  artist  who  is  the 
product  of  his  age,  and  acts  in  conformity  with  it. 

Under  one  of  Fra  Angelico's  pictures  is  inscribed 
the  sentence,  Painted  at  rest,  praying.  Those  who 
look  at  the  picture  are  scarcely  in  need  of  such  an 
explanation.  There  is  an  infinite  peace  and  spiritual 
fervour  in  the  picture ;  it  seems  to  have  captured  in 


THE  TEACHING  OF  R US KIN  247 

its  rich  colour  a  radiance  that  is  not  of  this  world, 
and  it  is  the  expression  not  merely  of  the  great 
technical  qualities  of  the  artist,  but  also  of  the 
devoutness  of  his  soul,  and  the  virile  purity  and 
reach  of  his  imagination.  And  this  is  not  an  inapt 
illustration  of  the  truth  that  Ruskin  enforces  con- 
tinually in  his  art-teaching.  To  produce  a  great 
picture,  it  is  necessary  not  merely  for  the  artist  to 
prepare  his  canvas,  but  to  prepare  himself.  If  a 
picture  is  not  great,  it  is  because  the  artist  lacks 
moral  and  spiritual  fibre ;  and  no  knowledge  of 
technique,  or  laborious  dexterity  of  hand,  can  cover 
this  deficiency.  Beauty  of  a  mechanical  or  tumult- 
uous kind  there  may  be,  but  never  the  highest  form 
of  beauty  without  the  noblest  passion  for  truth. 

Let  this  principle  be  applied  to  the  general  aspects 
of  national  life,  and  it  is  equally  penetrative  and 
infallible.  Let  it  be  assumed  that  English  cities  of 
the  manufacturing  type  are  squalid  and  repulsive ; 
that  they  have  no  fine  order  or  regulated  beauty  of 
arrangement;  that  they  have  no  noble  public  build- 
ings ;  or,  if  they  have  them,  they  are  hidden  away 
behind  grimy  ranges  of  mean  tenements,  so  that 
their  total  effect  cannot  be  realised  or  discovered ; 
and  it  will  be  found  that  this  outward  ugliness  is 
the  natural  witness  to  a  general  contempt  of  truth. 
It  is  generally  assumed  that  Ruskin's  violently 
expressed  censure  of  the  ignoble  grime  of  manu- 
facturing towns  springs  from  a  violent  hatred  of 
manufacture.  On  the  contrary,  he  himself  has 
established  manufactures,  and  praises  with  Carlyle 
the  great  'captains  of  industry.'  But  what  he  says 
is,  that  there  is  no  natural  association  between 
manufacture  and  ugliness,  and  there  need  be  none. 


248  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

If  there  be  a  notorious  violation  of  beauty,  it  is 
because  there  has  been  a  notorious  contempt  for 
truth.  What  truth  ?  The  truth  that  man  lives  not 
by  bread  alone  ;  that  the  soul  has  claims  as  well  as 
the  stomach ;  that  to  make  money  is  in  itself  the 
ignoblest  of  pursuits,  and  that  where  money  is  made 
by  the  sacrifice  of  men,  it  is  more  wicked  than  war, 
because  more  deliberately  cruel.  If  there  had  been 
any  due  and  real  sense  of  the  claims  of  the  soul,  as 
infinitely  superior  to  the  claims  of  the  stomach, 
England  would  not  have  permitted  her  manufactures 
to  thrive  by  the  destruction  of  all  that  refines  and 
ennobles  those  by  whose  toil  this  enormous  wealth 
is  created.  If  English  cities  are  ugly,  if  there  is  not 
one  of  them,  nor  all  together,  capable  of  giving  so 
much  delight  to  the  eye  as  the  meanest  mediaeval 
Italian  town  could  furnish,  it  is  because  we  have 
been  too  absorbed  in  the  ignoble  haste  to  be  rich 
to  care  for  anything  but  the  condition  of  our  bank- 
books. It  is  not  manufactures  that  are  wrong,  but 
the  spirit  in  which  they  are  conducted.  Those  who 
administer  them  have  notoriously  departed  from 
truth  in  the  essential  methods  of  their  administration. 
They  have  not  sought  to  provide  an  honest  article 
for  an  honest  wage.  They  have  had  no  pride  in 
their  work,  but  only  a  base  pleasure  in  its  rewards. 
They  have  not  asked,  '  Is  this  thing  that  I  have 
made  as  sound  and  efficient  a  thing  as  it  is  possible 
for  me  to  produce?'  but  'Have  I  produced  some- 
thing that  will  pay,  and  something  calculated 
cunningly  to  deceive  the  eye,  so  that  I  may  obtain 
a  larger  payment  for  it  than  I  have  justly  earned 
or  have  any  right  to  expect?'  No  wonder  manu- 
facturing towns  are  ugly  and  squalid  when  they  are 


THE  TEACHING  OF  RUSKIN  249 

governed  and  created  by  men  of  this  spirit  ;  how 
could  you  reasonably  expect  them  to  be  beautiful? 
There  has  been  a  contempt  for  truth,  and  there  is 
a  corresponding  contempt  for  beauty.  Before  Eng- 
land can  be  a  land  of  beautiful  cities,  it  must  be 
renewed  in  its  ideals,  and  must  regain  that  reverence 
for  truth  which  it  has  lost. 

The  only  final  strength  is  Tightness,  says  Ruskin ; 
and  excellence,  whether  of  art  or  of  character,  can 
only  be  achieved  by  an  unswerving  fidelity  to  right. 
A  contempt  of  beauty  means  more  than  a  lack  of 
aesthetic  taste  in  a  man's  nature  :  it  means  necessarily 
a  contempt  of  right,  since  beauty  is  the  concrete 
final  expression  of  Tightness.  Venice  rose  from  the 
sea  in  stern  yet  exquisite  grandeur  of  form,  because 
the  race  that  laid  its  stones  deep  in  the  shallow 
waters  of  the  lagoons  were  for  centuries  a  great  and 
noble  race,  disciplined  into  strenuous  hardihood  by 
the  nature  of  their  perilous  position,  virtuous  by  their 
passion  for  liberty,  great  in  soul  by  their  reverence 
for  truth.  The  period  of  their  decline  is  marked  in 
the  corruption  of  their  architecture,  and  the  dream 
of  beauty  lessens  as  the  people  wax  debased.  It  is 
useless,  says  Ruskin,  to  ask  for  men  like  Tintoret  or 
churches  like  St.  Mark's  in  a  day  when  manufacture 
prospers  by  jugglery,  and  trade  is  an  organised 
deceit ;  we  ask  for  the  blossom  on  the  tree,  forget- 
ting that  its  stem  is  cut,  and  its  root  withered.  You 
will  get  sound  workmanship  in  no  department  of  life, 
when  honesty  and  truth  have  ceased  to  command 
respect ;  and  since  beauty  is  Tightness,  you  will  not 
get  beauty  either.  The  jerry-builder  is  simply  the 
natural  and  inevitable  product  of  an  avaricious  and 
corrupt   age.       He   is   the    parasite   of    a   decaying 


250  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

civilisation,  at  once  springing  from  the  decay  and 
propagating  it.  Had  Venice  been  built  by  men 
whose  one  passion  was  money,  and  whose  one  evil 
gift  was  a  minute  and  absolute  mastery  of  the  art  of 
cheating,  we  should  have  had  a  stucco  St.  Mark's, 
which  long  ago  had  sunk  unregretted  in  the  tides 
from  which  it  rose.  An  unstable  people  does  not 
build  stable  and  enduring  works,  but  after  its  kind 
unstable  erections,  only  meant  to  last  as  long  as 
money  can  be  made  by  them.  The  age  of  cathedral 
building  was  naturally  the  age  when  belief  in  God 
was  an  intelligible  factor  in  human  conduct,  and 
when  the  imaginations  of  men  were  fed  by  solemn 
and  eternal  visions  of  truth.  But  when  we  build 
churches  we  build  them  by  contract,  accepting  the 
lowest  tender,  and  we  are  utterly  indifferent  to  the 
quality  of  the  work,  so  long  as  we  get  something 
showy  for  our  money.  All  the  bad  building  that 
goes  on  in  our  civic  centres  is  therefore,  like  the  bad 
art  of  our  time,  simply  the  outward  witness  to  an 
inward  corruption  of  the  conscience.  There  is  only 
one  remedy,  says  Ruskin :  '  No  religion  that  ever 
was  preached  on  this  earth  of  God's  rounding,  will 
proclaim  any  salvation  to  sellers  of  bad  goods.  If 
the  Ghost  that  is  in  you,  whatever  the  essence  of  it, 
leaves  your  hand  a  juggler's  and  your  heart  a  cheat's, 
it  is  not  a  Holy  Ghost,  be  assured  of  that.  And  for 
the  rest,  all  political  economy,  as  well  as  all  higher 
virtue,  depends  first  on  sound  work.' 

To  obtain,  therefore,  fine  art  or  noble  architecture, , 
according  to  the  gospel  of  Ruskin,  means  an  entire 
reorganisation   of  commerce,  and  a  renewal  of  the 
whole  nation  in  righteousness.     And  this  means  a 
renewal  in  honesty,  a  word  whose  meaning  is  almost 


THE  TEACHING  OF  R US KIN  251 

lost  in  the  dim-sightedness  bred  of  universal  chicanery 
and  fraud.  Thus,  by  what  is  after  all  no  feat  of 
intellectual  acrobatics,  but  a  calmly  reasoned  and 
intelligent  process,  Ruskin  passes  from  the  considera- 
tion of  the  ethics  of  art  and  architecture  to  the 
creation  of  a  new  and  radical  political  economy. 

What,  then,  is  the  chief  burden  of  Ruskin's  ethical 
and  social  teaching?  He  lays  down,  first  of  all,  the 
absolute  duty  of  work,  and  of  work  which,  as  far  as 
possible, absorbs  the  full  interest,and  excites  the  inven- 
tive faculty  of  the  worker.  The  great  evil  of  modern 
civilisation  is  '  not  that  men  are  ill  fed,  but  that  they 
have  no  pleasure  in  the  work  by  which  they  make 
their  bread,  and  therefore  look  to  wealth  as  the  only 
means  of  pleasure.'  Now  the  workmen  who  built 
St.  Mark's,  or  any  great  English  cathedral,  were, 
beyond  doubt,  far  worse  fed  than  our  modern  work- 
men ;  but  their  work  was  a  pleasure  to  them,  because 
they  put  into  it  such  intelligence  of  soul  as  they 
possessed,  and  therefore  it  is  good  and  stable  work. 
The  general  thirst  for  wealth  really  means,  therefore, 
a  distaste  for  honest  labour,  and  the  resolve  to  escape 
labour  by  the  readiest  means  in  our  power.  But 
why  has  the  workman  no  pleasure  in  his  work  ? 
Partly  because  we  have  destroyed  the  possibility  of 
pleasure  by  what  we  call  division  of  labour,  and 
so  rendered  the  exercise  of  thought  and  intelligence 
unnecessary.  '  It  is  not,  truly  speaking,  the  labour 
which  is  divided,  but  the  men :  divided  into  mere 
segments  of  men — broken  into  small  fragments  and 
crumbs  of  life ;  so  that  all  the  little  piece  of  intel- 
ligence that  is  left  in  a  roan  is  not  enough  to  make  a 
pin  or  a  nail,  but  exhausts  itself  in  making  the  point 
of  a  pin  or  the  head  of  a  nail.'     This  is  really  the 


252  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

ground  of  Ruskin's  antagonism  to  machine-made 
goods,  and  his  strong  preference  for  goods  made  by 
hand  ;  the  latter  are  the  product  of  intelligence,  and 
work  that  has  pleasure  in  its  act,  and  the  former  are 
not ;  the  one  work  develops  men,  the  other  divides 
and  enslaves  them. 

He  then  gives  his  standard  of  wages  in  three 
principles,  which  to  all  men  of  just  and  honourable 
minds  will  appear  self-evident  and  imperative.  First, 
men  should  be  paid  for  the  actual  work  done ; 
secondly,  'a  man  should  in  justice  be  paid  for 
difficult  or  dangerous  work  proportionately  more 
than  for  easy  and  safe  work,  supposing  the  other 
conditions  of  the  work  similar:'  thirdly,  'if  a  man 
does  a  given  quantity  of  work  for  me,  I  am  bound  in 
justice  to  do,  or  procure  to  be  done,  a  precisely  equal 
quantity  of  work  for  him  ;  and  just  trade  in  labour 
is  the  exchange  of  equivalent  quantities  of  labour  of 
different  kinds.'  Thus  the  employer  of  labour  is  him- 
self a  labourer,  giving,  in  exchange  for  work  done  for 
him,  another  kind  of  work  done  for  those  who  serve 
under  him.  The  factory  worker  is  not  'a  hand,'  but 
a  man,  and  it  is  the  bounden  duty  of  his  employer 
to  see  that  he  has  a  fair  share  of  food,  and  warmth 
and  comfort,  and  a  reasonable  opportunity  of  attend- 
ing to  the  wants  of  his  mind,  and  the  culture  of  his 
soul.  His  claim  is  not,  and  never  can  be,  settled 
adequately  by  any  award  of  money  ;  his  employer  is 
also  responsible  for  the  nature  of  his  life.  If  the  indi- 
vidual employer  is  too  callous  or  indifferent  to  attend 
to  these  responsibilities,  then  it  is  the  business  of  the 
State  to  step  in,  and  force  upon  the  avaricious  and 
foolish  master  the  instant  attendance  to  his  duties. 
Indeed,  in  almost  all  that  concerns  trade,  Ruskin 


THE  TEACHING  OF  RUSKIN  253 


advocates  what  we  understand  as  State-Socialism. 
He  would  have  either  the  trade-guild  or  the  State 
fix  a  standard  of  excellence  for  all  manufactured 
articles.  The  public  would  soon  discover  that  it  was 
all  the  better  off  by  buying  a  sound  article,  and  the 
craze  for  mere  cheapness  would  die  with  the  dis- 
covery that  the  cheap  thing  is,  in  the  long-run,  the 
dearest,  being  worthless  at  any  price.  Moreover, 
such  a  wise  interference  by  the  State,  if  all  States 
would  unite  in  its  enforcement,  would,  in  the  end, 
kill  the  demon  of  competition,  which  is  the  curse  of 
commerce.  '  The  primal  and  eternal  law  of  vital  com- 
merce shall  be  of  all  men  understood  ;  namely,  that 
every  nation  is  fitted  by  its  character,  and  the  nature 
of  its  territories,  for  some  particular  employments 
or  manufactures  ;  and  that  it  is  the  true  interest  of 
every  other  nation  to  encourage  it  in  such  speciality, 
and  by  no  means  to  interfere  with,  but  in  all  ways 
forward  and  protect  its  efforts,  ceasing  all  rivalship 
with  it,  so  soon  as  it  is  strong  enough  to  occupy  its 
proper  place.'  The  one  necessary  principle  for  all 
honourable  and  efficient  trade  is  thus  seen  to  be 
co-operation.  First  of  all,  between  the  employers 
and  the  employed,  each  honestly  working  to  serve 
the  public  by  the  production  of  the  best  possible 
article ;  and  then  between  nations,  each  separate 
people  producing  what  it  can  produce  best,  for  the 
general  international  good. 

It  will,  of  course,  be  said,  that  under  such  a  system 
as  this  no  large  fortunes  could  be  made;  but  equally 
it  is  true  that  nine-tenths  of  our  want  and  misery 
would  disappear,  the  other  tenth  being  that  caused 
by  vice  and  improvidence,  which  no  State  can  remove, 
so  long  as  man  has  the  right  to  ruin  himself.     The 


254  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

question  is,  how  are  large  fortunes  made,  and  by 
what  methods,  under  the  existing  system?  Ruskin 
replies  that  such  fortunes  as  are  the  prizes  of  com- 
merce can  only  be  made  in  one  of  three  ways : 
(i)  By  obtaining  command  over  the  labour  of  multi- 
tudes of  other  men,  and  taxing  it  for  our  own  profit. 
(2)  By  treasure-trove,  as  of  mines,  useful  vegetable 
products,  and  the  like — in  circumstances  putting 
them  under  our  own  exclusive  control.  (3)  By 
speculation  (commercial  gambling).  Ruskin  cate- 
gories these  three  methods  under  the  scathing  title 
of  'The  nature  of  theft  by  unjust  profits,'  and,  after 
explaining  by  what  means  such  dishonest  acquisition 
is  accomplished,  asks  us  to  '  consider  further,  how 
many  of  the  carriages  that  glitter  in  our  streets  are 
driven,  and  how  many  of  the  stately  houses  that 
gleam  among  our  English  fields  are  inhabited,  by 
this  kind  of  thief!'  His  remedy  for  the  first  kind 
of  theft  is,  as  we  have  seen,  a  just  system  of  co- 
operation ;  and  while  no  remedy  is  stated  for  the 
second,  yet  the  plain  suggestion  is  the  nationalisa- 
tion of  mines  and  mineral  treasure  generally,  as  the 
property  of  the  State,  to  be  administered  for  the 
good  of  all.  Of  the  third  form  of  theft  his  words 
are  unmistakably  stern  and  incisive  ;  '  for  in  all  cases 
of  profit  derived  from  speculation,  at  best,  what  one 
man  gains  another  loses ;  and  the  net  result  to  the 
State  is  zero  (pecuniarily),  with  the  loss  of  time  and 
ingenuity  spent  in  the  transaction  ;  beside  the  dis- 
advantage involved  in  the  discouragement  of  the 
losing  party,  and  the  corrupted  moral  natures  of 
both.' 

And,  beyond  all  this,  Ruskin  teaches  that  great 
fortunes  are  rarely  a  blessing  to  their  possessors,  and 


THE  TEACHING  OF  RUSKIN  255 

the  truly  fortunate  man  is  he  whose  wealth  is  in  the 
limitation  of  his  lower  desires,  and  the  extension  of 
his  higher  aspirations.  The  gospel  of  plain  living 
and  high  thinking  is  after  all  a  possible  gospel, 
within  the  reach  of  all.  The  love  of  money  is  the 
root  of  all  the  evil  in  our  modern  life.  It  is  right 
that  work  should  be  honestly  remunerated ;  but  if 
we  love  the  fee  more  than  the  work,  then  fee  is  our 
master,  '  and  the  lord  of  fee,  who  is  the  devil.'  The 
true  advancement  of  men  must  begin  in  the  heart 
and  conscience,  and  it  is  because  England  has  grown 
in  wealth,  but  not  in  character,  that  we  have  side  by 
side  the  prodigality  of  the  rich  and  the  want  of  the 
poor  ;  and,  having  regard  to  the  first  alone,  persuade 
ourselves  that  we  live  in  an  era  of  unexampled 
prosperity,  and  are  blind  to  the  realities  of  un- 
exampled corruption  and  materialism.  We  have 
yet  to  learn  the  art  of  wise  and  noble  living  ;  and 
'what  is  chiefly  needed  in  England  at  the  present 
day  is  to  show  the  quantity  of  pleasure  that  may  be 
obtained  by  a  consistent,  well-administered  com- 
petence, modest,  confessed,  and  laborious.  We  need 
examples  of  people  who,  leaving  Heaven  to  decide 
whether  they  are  to  rise  in  the  world,  decide  for 
themselves  whether  they  will  be  happy  in  it,  and 
have  resolved  to  seek,  not  greater  wealth,  but  simpler 
pleasure  ;  not  higher  fortune,  but  deeper  felicity ; 
making  the  first  of  possessions  self-possession ;  and 
honouring  themselves  in  the  harmless  pride  and 
calm  pursuits  of  peace.'  These  are  truly  prophetic 
words,  and  contain,  not  only  the  counsel  of  a  great 
thinker,  but  of  a  true  patriot. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

ruskin's  ideal  of  women 

No  summary  of  Ruskin's  teaching  would  be  com- 
plete without  reference  to  the  more  poetical  side  of 
his  genius ;  and  since  it  is  necessary  to  quote  some 
concrete  example,  we  can  scarcely  find  a  better  than 
that  section  of  his  writings  which  deals  specifically 
with  the  place  assigned  to  woman  in  his  new  Utopia. 
For  him,  as  for  all  really  great  writers  and  thinkers, 
woman  has  held  a  high  place,  and  been  a  command- 
ing influence.  But  one  can  no  more  describe  in  a 
sentence  what  is  Ruskin's  ideal  woman,  than  what  is 
his  ideal  of  art,  for  in  all  his  writing  he  is  as  we 
have  seen,  alternately  reactionary  and  progressive, 
and  at  all  times  a  mystic,  whose  perceptions  are 
coloured  by  a  singularly  grave  and  noble  imagina- 
tion. That  he  would  not  accept  all  the  theories  of 
female  emancipation  which  are  current  to-day  is 
clear  from  the  most  casual  acquaintance  with  his  drift 
of  thought,  and  in  this  he  may  be  deemed  reactionary. 
But  the  reaction  on  its  rebound  really  becomes  a 
very  large  measure  of  progression.  He  goes  back 
to  the  more  ancient  ideals  of  womanly  modesty, 
humility,  and  service,  only  to  link  them  afresh  to  all 
that  is  highest  in  the  aims  of  modern  life.  And 
nowhere  is  his  mysticism — the  mysticism  of  the 
lover  and  the  thinker,  reverent  and  sweet  and  beauti- 

256 


RUSKIN  S  IDEAL  OF  WOMEN  257 

ful  —  more  pronounced  than  in  his  treatment  of 
woman.  In  Ruskin  himself  there  is  a  certain 
feminine  element  that  perhaps  enables  him  to  judge 
woman  with  a  finer  delicacy  and  more  accurate  eye 
than  belong  to  most  men  ;  certainly  with  a  graver 
sympathy  and  more  chivalrous  regard. 

Every  one  who  has  read  the  lecture  on  '  Queen's 
Gardens '  in  Sesame  and  the  Lilies  will  remember 
the  series  of  fine  passages  in  which  Ruskin  points 
out  how  reverence  for  womanhood  has  been  the 
master-note  in  the  rich  music  of  the  greatest  poets. 
We  cannot  do  better  than  recall  these  passages 
if  we  would  understand  his  own  ideal  of  woman- 
hood. Broadly  speaking,  he  says,  Shakespeare  has 
no  heroes — he  has  only  heroines.  The  one  entirely 
heroic  figure  in  the  plays — and  this  is  after  all  but 
a  slight  sketch — is  Henry  the  Fifth.  And  then 
he  continues  :  '  Coriolanus,  Caesar,  Antony,  stand  in 
flawed  strength,  and  fall  by  their  vanities  ;  Hamlet 
is  indolent  and  drowsily  speculative ;  Romeo  an 
impatient  boy ;  the  Merchant  of  Venice  languidly 
submissive  to  adverse  fortune ;  Kent,  in  King  Lear, 
is  entirely  noble  at  heart,  but  too  rough  and  un- 
polished to  be  of  true  use  at  the  critical  time,  and 
he  sinks  into  the  office  of  a  servant  only.  .  .  . 
Whereas  there  is  hardly  a  play  that  has  not  a  perfect 
woman  in  it,  steadfast  in  grave  hope  and  errorless 
purpose;  Cordelia,  Desdemona,  Isabella,  Hermione, 
Imogen,  Queen  Catherine,  Perdita,  Sylvia,  Viola, 
Rosalind,  Helena,  and  last,  and  perhaps  loveliest, 
Virgilia,  are  all  faultless,  conceived  in  the  highest 
heroic  type  of  humanity.'  Of  course,  the  mind  will 
also  recall  the  dread  figure  of  Lady  Macbeth,  and 
the  revolting  hard-heartedness  of  Regan  and  Goneril  ; 

R 


258  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

but  these,  says  Mr.  Ruskin,  were  clearly  meant  by 
Shakespeare  to  be  frightful  exceptions  to  the  ordinary 
aspects  of  life.  And  as  it  was  with  Shakespeare,  so 
it  was  with  Walter  Scott,  with  Dante,  with  the  great 
Greeks,  and  with  our  own  Chaucer  and  Spenser. 
Wherever  woman  is  pictured,  it  is  in  the  bright 
strength  of  her  truth  and  purity,  her  constancy  and 
virtue.  Chaucer  writes  his  Legend  of  Good  Women, 
and  Spenser  makes  it  clear  to  us  how  easily  the  best 
of  his  faery  knights  may  be  deceived  and  vanquished ; 
'but  the  soul  of  Una  is  never  darkened,  and  the 
spear  of  Britomart  is  never  broken.'  This  view  of 
woman  is  one  which  Mr.  Ruskin  indorses  and  am- 
plifies. He  believes  in  the  old  Teutonic  reverence 
for  women  as  the  prophets  of  society,  'as  infallibly 
faithful  and  wise  counsellors,  incorruptibly  just  and 
pure  examples — strong  always  to  sanctify  even  where 
they  cannot  save ' ;  and  he  shows  with  completeness 
of  illustration  that  the  greatest  men  have  believed 
in  this  ideal  of  womanhood,  and  that  this  belief  has 
shaped  and  coloured  all  that  is  noblest  in  the  poetic 
literature  of  the  world. 

Starting  from  this  noble  ideal  of  what  woman 
may  be,  Ruskin  works  out  the  details  of  his  picture 
with  great  art  and  fidelity.  He  will  hear  of  no 
'superiority'  between  the  sexes,  of  no  obedience 
demanded  by  the  one  as  the  prerogative  of  sex,  or 
rendered  by  the  other  as  its  condition.  Woman  was 
certainly  not  meant  to  be  the  attendant  shadow  of 
her  lord,  serving  him  with  a  thoughtless  and  servile 
obedience  ;  for  how  could  he  be  '  helped  effectually 
by  a  shadow,  or  worthily  by  a  slave '  ?  And  as  for 
'  superiority,'  in  what  does  superiority  lie?  For  any 
true   comparison  there  must  be  similarity,  whereas 


RUSKIWS  IDEAL  OF  WOMEN  259 

between  man  and  woman  there  is  eternal  dissimilarity. 
They  can  be  neither  equal  nor  unequal  who  have 
wholly  different  gifts,  and  are  intrusted  with  widely 
various  functions.  '  Each  has  what  the  other  has 
not ;  each  completes  the  other,  and  is  completed  by 
the  other  ;  they  are  in  nothing  alike,  and  the  happi- 
ness and  perfection  of  both  depends  on  each  asking 
and  receiving  from  the  other  what  the  other  only 
can  give.'  Yet  however  radical  are  the  differences, 
simply  because  each  is  the  complement  of  the  other, 
their  cause  is  one,  and  the  mission  and  rights  of 
women  cannot  be  separated  from  the  mission  and 
rights  of  men.  This  is  simply  a  prose  statement  of 
the  philosophy  which  Tennyson  has  interpreted  in 
memorable  verse  when  he  says  : 

For  woman  is  not  undevelopt  man, 
But  diverse  :  could  we  make  her  as  the  man, 
Sweet  love  were  slain  ;  his  bond  is  this, 
Not  like  to  like,  but  like  in  difference. 

The  woman's  cause  is  man's  ;  they  rise  or  sink 
Together,  dwarfed  or  godlike,  bond  or  free. 

To  the  more  ardent  and  inconsiderate  spirits  in  the 
modern  revolt  of  woman,  all  this  may  seem  some- 
what antiquated  philosophy  nowadays.  Those  who 
are  loudest  in  proclaiming  the  advance  of  women 
sometimes  talk  as  if  they  would  be  content  with  no 
advance  that  did  not  submerge  man,  or  which  at 
least  surrendered  the  claim  of  absolute  equality  to 
woman.  And  such  women  will  probably  resent  the 
stress  which  Ruskin  lays  upon  man's  fitness  for  the 
world,  and  woman's  fitness  for  the  household.  They 
will  not  care  to  admit  that  '  man's  power  is  active, 


260  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

progressive,  defensive.  He  is  eminently  the  doer, 
the  creator,  the  discoverer,  the  defender.  His  in- 
tellect is  for  speculation  and  invention ;  his  energy 
for  adventure,  for  war,  for  conquest,  wherever  war  is 
just,  wherever  conquest  necessary.  But  the  woman's 
power  is  for  rule,  not  for  battle  ;  and  her  intel- 
lect is  not  for  invention  or  creation,  but  for  sweet 
ordering,  arrangement,  decision.'  Yet  it  may  be 
well  even  for  the  most  advanced  woman  to  ask 
whether  Tennyson  and  Ruskin  have  not  the  truth 
with  them,  and  whether  she  would  not  lose  far  more 
than  she  could  gain  by  scornfully  rejecting  the 
programme  each  assigns  her.  For  it  is  in  the 
domain  of  the  emotions  that  Ruskin  makes  woman 
supreme.  The  man,  in  his  conflict  with  the  world, 
is  sure  to  be  hardened  ;  but  it  is  his  business  to 
guard  the  woman  against  this  hardening  of  the 
heart,  and  her  work  is  to  soften  and  purify  the 
man  by  the  strength  of  her  emotions  and  the  joy 
of  her  affection.  The  hardening  of  the  heart  is  a 
doleful  and  disastrous  process,  which  we  see  going 
on  around  us  every  day,  and  perhaps  also  perceive 
within  us.  We  accept  the  responsibility  for  training 
the  mind,  but  we  do  not  think  it  necessary  to  train 
and  educate  the  emotions.  More  than  this,  we 
English  people  are  for  the  most  part  ashamed  of  our 
emotions,  and  take  a  pride  in  repressing  them,  so 
that  equally  in  Europe  and  America  we  are  regarded 
as  the  coldest  and  most  phlegmatic  of  races.  It  is, 
no  doubt,  not  well  to  wear  the  heart  upon  the  sleeve, 
but  it  is  still  worse  to  repress  the  emotions  until  they 
become  sterile,  and  the  very  power  of  feeling  dies  in 
us.  For  the  Englishman,  the  home  is  the  one  secure 
asylum  where  he  permits    his  heart  to  beat  freely, 


R  US  KIN'S  IDEAL  OF  WOMEN  261 

and  for  that  reason  we,  more  than  most  peoples, 
should  reverence  women  as  the  queens  of  the  heart, 
whose  work  it  is  to  liberate  in  the  home  the  emotions 
that  have  been  repressed  in  the  world.  Home  is 
the  place  of  peace,  the  sanctuary  of  the  heart,  the 
realm  wherein  the  emotions  may  find  free  air  and 
unimpeded  action  ;  it  is,  as  Ruskin  nobly  says,  roof 
and  fire,  shelter  and  warmth,  shade  and  light — 
'  Shade  as  of  the  rock  in  a  weary  land,  and  light  as 
of  the  Pharos  in  the  stormy  sea.'  And  in  such  a 
home  it  is  the  part  of  woman  to  be  '  enduringly, 
incorruptibly  good  ;  instinctively,  infallibly  wise — 
wise,  not  for  self-development,  but  for  self-renunci- 
ation ;  wise,  not  that  she  may  set  herself  above  her 
husband,  but  that  she  may  never  fail  from  his  side  ; 
wise,  not  with  the  narrowness  of  insolent  and  love- 
less pride,  but  with  the  passionate  gentleness  of 
an  infinitely  variable,  because  infinitely  applicable, 
modesty  of  service  —  the  true  changefulness  of 
woman.' 

'  Wise,  not  for  self-development,  but  for  self- 
renunciation,' this  again  will  sound  like  a  note  of 
reaction,  and  will  be  distasteful  to  many  noble  souls 
who  toil  heroically  for  the  advance  of  woman.  Yet 
the  whole  evil  is  in  the  sound — there  is  no  error  in 
the  sentiment.  If  morality  is  more  than  culture,  if 
to  be  is  better  than  to  know,  if  character  is  a  more 
precious  gain  than  even  knowledge,  then  it  is  clear 
that  self-renunciation,  by  which  the  flower  of  the 
soul  is  brought  to  fulness,  is  a  nobler  gain  than  self- 
development,  by  which  the  mind  is  trained  to  alert 
activity  and  the  body  to  athletic  vigour.  But  what 
Ruskin  means  by  self-development  is  the  develop- 
ment of  selfishness,  just  as  by  self-renunciation  he 


262  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

means  the  subdual  of  self,  and  its  suppression. 
Certainly  he  does  not  mean  that  the  weapons  of 
intellectual  growth  or  physical  culture  are  to  be 
denied  to  women.  On  the  contrary,  he  declares  that 
the  first  duty  of  society  to  women  is  'to  secure  for 
her  such  physical  training  and  exercise  as  may  con- 
firm her  health  and  perfect  her  beauty,'  and  again, 
that '  all  such  knowledge  should  be  given  her  as  may 
enable  her  to  understand,  and  even  to  aid,  the  work 
of  man.'  In  this  latter  respect  Ruskin  may  be 
claimed  as  one  of  the  pioneers  of  the  higher  educa- 
tion of  women.  In  1864,  when  these  words  were 
uttered,  there  were  not  many  men  who  ventured 
to  claim  a  perfect  equality  of  education  for  men 
and  women  ;  but  this  Ruskin  does  with  passionate 
pleading,  nor  is  there  any  passage  of  satire  in  his 
writings  more  telling  than  that  in  which  he  contrasts 
the  education  afforded  to  a  boy  with  that  thought 
sufficient  for  a  girl.  He  says  that  at  least  you  show 
some  respect  for  the  tutor  of  your  son,  and  you  teach 
your  son  to  respect  him.  You  do  not  treat  the 
Dean  of  Christ  Church  or  the  Master  of  Trinity  as 
your  inferiors.  But  you  intrust  the  entire  formation 
of  a  girl's  'character,  moral  and  intellectual,  to  a 
person  whom  you  let  your  servants  treat  with  less 
respect  than  they  do  your  housekeeper  (as  if  the 
soul  of  your  child  were  a  less  charge  than  jam  and 
groceries),  and  whom  you  yourself  think  you  confer 
an  honour  upon  by  letting  her  sometimes  sit  in 
the  drawing-room  in  the  evening.'  Mr.  Ruskin's 
ideal  woman  is  clearly  no  creature  of  unfurnished 
mind,  meek  with  the  meekness  of  ignorance,  sub- 
servient with  the  humility  of  self-distrust ;  she  is 
the  highest   product  of  both  physical  and  mental 


R  US  KIN'S  IDEAL  OF  WOMEN  263 

culture,  and  is  fitted  to  sit  with  man  in  equal  com- 
radeship— 

Full-summed  in  all  their  powers, 
Dispensing  harvest,  sowing  the  To-Be. 

Ruskin's  ideal  of  woman  includes,  therefore,  a 
very  full  trust  in  those  moral  instincts  which  he 
regards  as  her  highest  gift,  and  in  the  unimpeded 
exercise  of  which  he  discerns  her  noblest  power. 
He  claims  for  her  the  largest  liberty,  because  she  is 
far  less  likely  than  man  to  abuse  her  liberty.  He 
goes  so  far  as  to  declare  that  nature  in  her  is  to  be 
trusted  far  more  than  in  men  to  do  its  own  work, 
and  to  do  it  beautifully  and  beneficently.  The  boy 
may  be  chiselled  into  shape,  but  the  girl  must  take 
her  own  way,  and  will  grow  as  a  flower  grows.  The 
boy  needs  discipline  before  he  will  learn  what  is  good 
for  him  ;  but  the  girl,  if  she  trust  her  instincts,  will 
be  infallibly  guided  to  what  is  good  around  her  with- 
out any,  save  the  slightest,  pressure  from  extraneous 
authority.  Thus  Mr.  Ruskin  advocates  in  a  well- 
known  passage  the  wisdom  of  letting  a  girl  pretty 
much  alone  in  the  choice  of  her  reading,  so  long 
as  the  mere  ephemeral  'package  of  the  circulating 
library,  wet  with  the  last  and  lightest  spray  of  the 
fountain  of  folly,'  is  kept  out  of  her  way.  '  Turn  her 
loose  into  the  old  library,'  he  says,  '  and  let  her  alone. 
She  will  find  what  is  good  for  her,  and  you  cannot. 
.  .  .  Let  her  loose  in  the  library,  I  say,  as  you  do  a 
fawn  in  a  field.  It  knows  the  bad  weeds  twenty 
times  better  than  you,  and  the  good  ones  too,  and 
will  eat  some  bitter  and  prickly  ones,  good  for  it, 
which  you  had  not  the  slightest  thought  were  good.' 
This  is  an  heroic  form  of  education,  indeed,  but  in 
Ruskin's   view   it  is   the   best   form,  simply  because 


264  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

he  has  unbounded  faith  in  the  wise  intuition  and 
invincible  purity  of  true  womanhood.  He  believes 
with  George  Meredith  that  woman  lies  nearer  to 
the  heart  of  Nature  than  man,  and  is  a  creature 
of  altogether  surer  and  wiser  instinct.  There  is  a 
sweet,  old-fashioned  chivalry  in  this  doctrine,  of 
which  we  hear  little  to-day.  It  is  characteristic  of 
the  man.  Simple  himself  as  a  child,  pure  and  sweet- 
natured  as  a  child,  he  feels  something  of  that  reverent 
worship  for  woman  which  was  the  soul  of  ancient 
chivalry ;  and  no  woman  can  read  his  writings  with- 
out a  fresh  and  happy  sense  of  her  own  endowments, 
and  a  new  and  high  ideal  of  how  these  can  be  best 
applied  for  the  service  of  the  world. 

We  are  all  hot  for  emancipation  to-day.  Ruskin 
bids  us  inquire  what  such  emancipation  really 
means.  He  reminds  us  that  womanhood  may  be 
emancipated  in  so  rough  and  wrong  a  fashion  that 
the  bloom  of  virgin  grace  may  be  wasted  in  the 
process,  and  the  true  charm  of  womanhood  may 
perish.  An  emancipation  which  corrupts  the  deli- 
cacy of  the  soul,  or  dulls  the  sensitiveness  of  the 
emotions,  is  a  fatal  error,  for  which  no  gain  of  worldly 
shrewdness  or  mental  acumen  can  be  any  just  or 
appreciable  recompense.  It  is  in  her  power  of  sym- 
pathy, of  kindness,  of  all  fine  and  tender  feeling,  that 
woman's  true  strength  lies,  and  any  diminution  here 
is  not  only  to  her  a  fatal  detriment,  but  it  is  a  bound- 
less loss  inflicted  on  society.  To  learn  to  feel,  or  to 
keep  in  unspent  freshness  the  power  to  feel,  is  for 
woman  of  far  greater  moment  than  to  learn  to  know, 
or  to  learn  to  achieve  some  poor  battle  in  the  clam- 
orous strifes  of  a  callous  world.  There  is  a  higher 
thing  than  to  speak  with  tongues,  or  to  know  all 


RUSKIN'S  IDEAL  OF  WOMEN  265 


mysteries,  and  that  is  to  love  with  the  love  that 
thinketh  no  evil,  that  rejoiceth  in  the  truth,  that 
beareth  all  things,  believeth  all  things,  hopeth  all 
things,  endureth  all  things.  This  is  the  essence  of 
Ruskin's  ideal  womanhood.  Nothing  that  ought  to 
be  shared  with  man  will  he  deny  her,  but  he  insists 
that  there  are  many  things  she  need  not  wish  to 
share,  because  she  is  the  mistress  of  a  larger  wealth 
which  is  hidden  in  her  own  soul.  To  know  how  to 
love  truly,  to  feed  the  sacred  flame  of  love  which  is 
the  glory  of  the  world,  to  soften  the  asperities  of 
life  with  her  charity,  and  to  brighten  its  joys  by  her 
diviner  force  of  feeling,  this  is  the  true  programme 
of  true  womanhood,  and  there  is  no  noble-natured 
woman  who  will  not  grant  that  it  is  a  high  and 
noble  ideal. 


CHAPTER   XX 

JOHN    RUSKIN  :   CHARACTERISTICS 

So  far  I  have  endeavoured  to  furnish  rather  an  indi- 
cation to  Ruskin's  system  of  thought  than  an  analysis 
of  it,  because  no  analysis  is  worth  much  that  is 
not  complete,  and  a  complete  analysis  needs  not  a 
chapter  or  a  paper,  but  a  book.  It  is  to  be  hoped 
that  some  day  an  industrious  student  will  prepare  a 
Ruskin  Primer,  in  which  his  intricate  and  elaborate 
teaching  may  be  set  forth  with  clearness,  order,  and 
precision.  I  do  not  for  a  moment  mean  to  suggest 
that  there  is  any  essential  lack  of  either  order  or 
precision,  for  no  writer  of  English  has  ever  expressed 
himself  with  more  lucidity.  But  he  is  the  frankest 
and  most  versatile  of  writers,  and  his  teachings  need 
collection  and  collation,  because  they  are  spread  over 
too  vast  an  area  for  the  ordinary  reader  to  traverse. 
The  truth  possesses  him ;  he  does  not  possess  the 
truth ;  and  it  often  happens,  as  we  have  seen,  that 
when  we  least  expect  it,  he  turns  with  the  nimble- 
ness  of  genius  from  the  subject  in  hand  to  one  that 
seems  only  remotely  related  to  it,  and  plunges 
without  warning  from  pure  art-criticism  into  social 
science.  And  because  he  is  the  frankest  of  men,  he 
has  never  taken  the  trouble  to  reconcile  his  teach- 
ings, and  systematise  them.  He  has  even  defended 
his  contradictions  on  the  ground  that  no  teacher  who 
is  himself  growing  in  a  knowledge  of  truth  can  fail  to 


RUSKIN:  CHARACTERISTICS  267 

contradict  himself,  since  such  contradictions  are  the 
essential  conditions  of  growth.  The  sterile  mind 
never  contradicts  itself,  because  it  has  become  petri- 
fied ;  but  the  living  mind,  which  is  vehement  in  its 
pursuit  of  truth,  will  inevitably  discover  that  what 
seemed  truth  in  youth  is  but  half-truth  or  even  false- 
hood in  age,  and  that  as  larger  horizons  open,  a 
perpetual  readjustment  of  vision  is  needed.  Thus, 
of  the  religious  truths  which  he  learned  in  childhood, 
he  has  said  :  '  Whatever  I  know  or  feel  now  of  the 
justice  of  God,  the  nobleness  of  man,  or  the  beauty 
of  nature,  I  knew  and  felt  then,  nor  less  strongly ; 
but  these  firm  faiths  were  confused  by  the  continual 
discovery,  day  by  day,  of  error  or  limitations  in  the 
doctrines  I  had  been  taught,  and  follies  or  inconsis- 
tencies in  their  teachers.' 

To  the  sympathetic  student  of  Ruskin,  this  perfect 
candour  is  not  the  least  part  of  his  charm.  There 
is  something  of  the  sweetness  and  frankness  of 
the  child  in  his  temper — the  inspired  child,  who 
announces  not  opinions  but  certainties,  with  the 
untroubled  positiveness  of  one  who  sees  only  one 
necessary  truth  at  a  time,  and  utters  it  with  a  total 
disregard  of  conventions.  And  yet  this  positiveness 
is  not  offensive,  but  persuasive,  because  it  is  united 
with  the  most  gracious  humility  of  spirit.  Ruskin 
has  never  hesitated  to  confess  himself  wrong  or  mis- 
taken, and  has  made  ungrudging  amends  for  any 
unintended  injustice  of  criticism.  The  later  editions 
of  Modern  Painters  contain  many  generous  modi- 
fications of  early  judgment,  which  he  has  since  dis- 
covered to  be  erroneous.  To  a  lady  who  once  told 
him  that  she  had  discovered  in  ten  minutes  what  he 
meant  by  the  supremacy  of  Boticelli,  he  made  the 


268  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 


scathing  reply:  'In  ten  minutes,  did  you  say?  I 
took  twenty  years  to  discover  it.'  Thoroughness  is 
the  very  essence  of  his  method,  as  frankness  is  of  his 
temper.  No  writer  of  our  day  has  been  more  entirely 
loyal  to  facts.  But  simply  because  his  mind  has 
never  ceased  to  grow,  because  he  has  never  put  away 
from  him  the  docile  temper  of  the  learner,  his  writings 
reflect  the  variations  and  vital  changes  of  his  growth, 
and  by  so  much  lose  effect  as  scientific  treatises,  and 
have  the  rarer  charm  of  personal  confessions. 

Opinions  will  no  doubt  differ  as  to  the  value  of 
Ruskin's  contribution  to  the  fund  of  human  thought ; 
there  can  scarcely  be  a  question  as  to  his  supremacy 
as  a  great  writer. 

The  great  writers,  who  command  not  a  transient 
fame  but  age-long  reverence,  have  usually  proved 
their  greatness  in  one  or  more  of  three  ways — their 
writings  are  personal  confessions,  that  is,  they  are 
the  intimate  and  enduring  records  of  the  individual 
soul ;  they  possess  the  secret  of  style,  by  which  we 
mean  they  are  written  in  such  a  form  that  they 
illustrate,  in  a  supreme  degree,  the  art  and  mastery 
of  language ;  or  they  express  moral  truths  of  eternal 
value  and  infinite  moment.  In  what  degree  does 
Ruskin  fulfil  these  conditions  ? 

In  the  first  place,  there  is  no  modern  writer  of 
English  who  has  more  clearly  reflected  the  move- 
ments and  intentions  of  his  own  soul  in  his  writings. 
We  know,  without  any  formal  biography,  what 
manner  of  man  he  is.  We  are  able  to  mark  every 
pulsation  of  his  thought,  as  we  watch  the  wind-ripple 
or  the  cloud-shadow  on  a  clear  lake.  He  leaves  us 
in  no  doubt  as  to  the  processes  of  his  intellectual 
life.     We  see  his  childhood,  nurtured  in  loyal  love 


RUSRIN:  CHARACTERISTICS  269 

of  truth  and  honour,  stimulated  in  a  sense  of  beauty 
by  familiarity  with  nature,  and  in  a  sense  of  literature 
by  systematic  absorption  of  the  English  Bible ;  a 
childhood  sheltered,  yet  not  secluded ;  sedulously 
fostered,  yet  not  pushed  forward  into  unwise  pre- 
cocity ;  thoughtful  and  calm,  yet  in  no  wise  lacking 
the  innocent  carelessness  and  joyous  interests  of 
childhood.  We  see  his  youth  and  early  manhood 
with  equal  clearness  of  vision,  and  mark  the  growth 
of  his  mind  in  his  mingled  reverence  and  antagonism 
for  Aristotle,  his  fruitful  study  of  Locke  and  Hooker, 
and  his  abiding  discipleship  of  Plato.  And  from  the 
moment  that  he  takes  pen  in  hand,  all  his  sensations, 
opinions,  prejudices,  aspirations,  and  ideals  find  the 
sincerest  record.  He  conceals  nothing,  because  he 
is  too  generously  frank  to  learn  or  covet  the  art  of 
concealment.  He  uses  words,  not  to  conceal  thought, 
but  to  express  it.  He  takes  the  world  into  his  com- 
plete confidence,  without  the  reticence  that  springs 
from  self-love,  or  the  timidity  that  springs  from  self- 
distrust.  There  is  not  a  page  which  he  has  written 
that  is  not  alive  with  personal  feeling,  and  is  not  in 
this  respect  a  frank  confession  of  the  interests  and 
purposes  of  a  living  soul.  There  are  very  few  writers, 
indeed,  who  have  dared  so  much.  The  great  majority 
of  books  leave  on  the  mind  no  impression  whatever 
of  the  personality  of  the  author.  But  wherever  a 
writer  does  make  his  book  a  human  document,  a 
truthful  and  sincere  delineation  of  a  soul  in  its  quest 
of  truth,  a  mind  in  its  search  for  knowledge,  a  life  in 
its  painful  adjustment  to  the  facts  and  problems  of 
the  world,  wc  have  a  book  that  lives,  and  which 
conquers  time.  There  is  no  theme  that  so  deeply 
interests  man — as  man.     Ruskin  creates  this  keen 


270  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 


interest  in  himself,  as  distinct  from  the  natural  interest 
in  his  teaching.  In  the  art  of  personal  revelation — 
that  rare  art  which  has  given  immortality  to  the 
writing  of  Montaigne,  and  Goethe,  and  Rousseau — 
Ruskin  stands  among  the  first  of  moderns. 

For  whatever  reasons,  then,  Ruskin  may  be  studied 
in  the  future,  it  is  at  least  certain  that  the  personal 
element  in  his  writings  will  exercise  a  permanent 
charm  upon  the  minds  of  all  who  brood  over  'the 
abysmal  deeps  of  personality,'  and  are  fascinated  in 
tracing  the  curious  elements  and  accidents  by  which 
the  strange   structure   of  individuality  is    built  up. 
We  have  learned  in  these  later  days,  more  completely 
than  in  any  other,  that  to  perfectly  understand  the 
writings  of  a  man  it  is  necessary  that  we  should 
know  all  we  can  about  the  man  himself,  and  hence 
the  enormous  growth  of  biography.     We  know  that 
all  great  writing  has  its  origin  in  personal  feeling 
and  experience,  and  that  which  moves  us  most,  does 
so  because  it  is  the  passionate  voice  of  an  emotion 
which  long  since  shook  the  heart  or  shaped  the  life 
of  the  writer.     We  read  our  Burns  and  Byron,  our 
Shelley  and  Wordsworth,  with  a  constant  recollec- 
tion of  each  poet's  life  and  history  ;  but  the  knowledge 
of  that  history  is  not  derived  from  any  formal  bio- 
graphy, so  much  as  from  the  vital  and  unconscious 
record  which  is  embalmed  in  the  writings  themselves. 
It  is  this  personal  element  that  maintains  in  undimin- 
ished freshness  and  vitality  of  charm  writings  such 
as  these ;  and  while  men  use  many  books  for  their 
knowledge,  and  praise  many  books  for  their  wisdom, 
they  love  only  those  books  which  speak  to  the  soul, 
because  they  have  been  spoken  from  the  soul.     And 
the  writing  of  Ruskin  belongs   to   this  rare  order. 


R  US  KIN:  CHARACTERISTICS  271 

Throughout  the  many  hundreds  of  pages  that  he  has 
written,  there  is  scarcely  one  that  has  not  the  strong 
vibration  of  personal  feeling  in  it,  or  that  fails  to 
communicate  that  glow  of  feeling  to  the  reader.  His 
writings  are  the  confessions  of  a  soul  in  search  of 
truth,  and  the  revelations  of  a  life  and  character 
laboriously  built  up  in  fidelity  to  the  highest  truth 
that  was  revealed. 

In  regard  to  the  second  element  of  great  writing — 
the  element  of  style — it  is  almost  unnecessary  to  say 
a  word.  It  was  by  the  charm  of  his  style  that  Ruskin 
first  captivated  the  world,  and  that  charm  has  grown 
with  the  growth  of  his  work.  It  owes  something  to 
Locke  and  Hooker,  and  still  more  to  Dr.  Johnson  ; 
but  in  its  flexibility,  vivacity,  and  eloquent  grace,  it 
is  peculiarly  his  own,  and  is  surpassed  by  no  dead 
or  living  writer  of  the  English  language.  Its  fault 
is  grandiloquence  ;  its  virtue  is  majesty.  The  long 
diapason  of  its  antitheses  occasionally  falls  upon  the 
ear  with  an  artificial  effect,  but  even  then  the  ear  is 
not  wearied.  It  is  perhaps  useless  to  attempt  the 
definition  of  style,  but  a  fine  style  has  at  least  three 
qualities,  without  which  it  cannot  be  fine  ;  viz.,  indi- 
viduality, truth,  and  beauty.  It  must  be  individual, 
or  else  it  is  no  style  at  all,  but  merely  so  much 
writing,  unnoticcable  in  the  great  mass  of  printed 
matter  with  which  the  world  is  littered.  It  must  have 
truth,  by  which  we  mean  that  it  must  use  language 
with  a  precise  appreciation  of  its  niceties  of  meaning  ; 
selecting  the  plain  word  if  it  be  the  fit  word,  but 
never  the  sonorous  word  for  the  mere  sake  of  its 
sound,  if  it  be  the  unfit ;  seeking  always  to  express 
thought  in  the  clearest  and  exactest  manner  by 
employing  those  words  which  most  entirely  convey 


272  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 


the  meaning  of  the  writer.  And  finally,  it  must  have 
beauty,  by  which  we  mean  that  in  a  fine  style  there 
will  be  an  exquisite  and  intimate  knowledge  of  the 
subtle  modulations  of  language,  so  that  the  sense  of 
beauty  is  satisfied  as  well  as  the  sense  of  truth,  and 
the  truth  is  expressed  in  the  noblest  form,  and  is,  as 
it  were,  clothed  in  radiance  and  music. 

There  are  writers  who  have  one  or  more  of  the 
qualities,  but  not  all ;  truth  but  not  beauty,  beauty 
but  not  individuality,  individuality  but  not  truth ; 
and  by  so  much  they  fail  to  reach  the  secret  of  style. 
A  writer  of  strong  individuality  will  often  express 
himself  with  truth,  but  not  with  beauty ;  and  a  writer 
who  has  no  particular  message  and  no  depth  of  soul, 
will  often  attain  to  such  beauty  as  comes  from  a 
sonorous  or  suggestive  use  of  language,  and  yet  fail 
to  affect  us  because  he  is  deficient  in  truth.  But  to 
attain  a  fine  style  all  three  of  these  gifts  are  needed  ; 
and  where  such  a  style  is  reached,  a  writer  passes 
beyond  transient  notoriety  into  the  calmer  realms  of 
immortal  renown.  It  is  therefore  no  empty  compli- 
ment to  speak  of  a  writer  as  possessing  a  great  style; 
it  is  really  equivalent  to  saying  he  is  a  great  man, 
for  there  is  essential  truth  in  the  axiom  that  the 
style  is  the  man. 

That  Ruskin  fulfils  these  canons  of  style  more 
completely  than  any  other  writer  of  our  time  will 
be  evident  to  any  one  who  is  acquainted  with  his 
writings.  On  the  personal  element  in  his  work, 
which  is  the  source  of  all  individuality  of  style,  I 
have  already  touched  ;  but  it  is  equally  clear  that  he 
possesses  in  an  unexampled  degree  the  qualities 
of  truth  and  beauty.  He  often  becomes  almost 
philological  in  the  minute  patience  with  which  he 


RUSKIN :  CHARACTERISTICS  273 

will  take  a  word,  and  explain  its  growth,  and 
extricate  its  secrecies  and  shades  of  meaning,  before 
he  will  use  it.  No  professor  or  diplomatist  could 
take  more  exhaustive  care  to  convey  his  exact 
meaning  by  the  use  of  words  in  their  exactest  sense. 
And  as  regards  the  sense  of  beauty,  the  art  of  pro- 
ducing fine  and  modulated  music  from  the  various 
combinations  of  language,  Ruskin  has  no  peer.  But 
it  is  not  the  charm  of  beauty  only,  it  is  the  charm  of 
truth.  Amid  all  this  pomp  of  language,  all  this  radi- 
ance of  imagination,  and  these  poignant  thrillings  of  a 
sad  or  noble  emotion,  there  is  not  one  word  that  does 
not  perform  its  duty,  and  is  not  the  one  word  perfectly 
fitted  to  produce  the  effect  and  express  the  thought 
which  the  writer  would  convey  to  us.  In  his  later 
writings  Ruskin  is  much  more  direct  and  unadorned 
in  style,  and  he  has  said  of  his  youthful  writings 
with  humorous  scorn,  '  People  used  to  call  me  a  good 
writer  then  ;  now  they  say  I  cannot  write  at  all, 
because,  for  instance,  if  I  think  anybody's  house  is 
on  fire,  I  only  say,  "  Sir,  your  house  is  on  fire." ' 
But  in  his  latest,  as  in  his  earliest  writings,  there  is 
the  same  charm  of  style  ;  now  direct,  pungent,  and 
simple,  now  passing  without  effort  into  passages  of 
sustained  and  sonorous  splendour;  but  always  satisfy- 
ing the  sense  of  beauty  by  '  linked  sweetness  long 
drawn  out,'  and  the  sense  of  truth  by  the  precision  of 
its  effects;  and,  last  of  all,  the  soul  by  the  force  of 
its  spiritual  fervour  and  moral  earnestness  ;  certainly 
one  of  the  noblest  styles  ever  reached,  one  of  the 
most  varied,  and  the  least  capable  of  imitation. 

But  it  is,  after  all,  in  the  noblest  clement  of  the 
great  writer — the  power  of  expressing  moral  truths 
— that   Ruskin  is    greatest,   and    his    work   is   most 

S 


274  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

worthy  of  renown.  No  teacher  of  our  generation 
has  uttered  truths  more  pregnant,  or  has  set  a 
higher  ideal  of  life  before  his  countrymen.  His 
own  conception  and  use  of  life  have  been  noble,  and 
he  strikes  the  keynote  of  all  his  teaching  when  he 
says,  '  Life  is  real — not  evanescent  or  slight.  It  does 
not  vanish  away ;  every  noble  life  leaves  the  fibre  of 
it,  for  ever,  in  the  work  of  the  world  ;  by  so  much, 
evermore,  the  strength  of  the  human  race  has  gained.' 
The  hope  for  which  he  has  lived  is  verily  the  hope  of 
the  kingdom  of  God — a  kingdom  visible  on  the  earth 
in  just  government  and  true  order,  in  honest  trade 
and  honoured  labour,  in  simplicity  of  life  and  fidelity 
to  truth ;  and  thus  a  kingdom  which,  having  virtue 
for  its  foundation,  may  justly  anticipate  happiness 
for  its  goal  What  he  has  made  battle  against  from 
youth  to  age  is  materialism — materialism  in  art,  in 
government,  in  methods  of  commerce  and  pro- 
grammes of  life.  He  has  never  spent  his  genius 
upon  an  unworthy  cause ;  and  while  he  has  not 
always  been  able  to  think  hopefully  of  the  world,  he 
has  never  ceased  to  preach  righteousness  in  courage- 
ous scorn  of  consequence.  It  would  be  too  much  to 
claim  that  he  has  made  no  mistakes,  or  that  all  his 
views  are  sound  and  reasonable  ;  but  it  may  at  least 
be  claimed  that  no  teacher  has  ever  more  frankly 
admitted  an  error  when  it  has  been  proved  an  error ; 
and  that  whether  his  counsel  be  reasonable  or  not, 
it  is  always  the  fruit  of  a  lofty  view  of  life,  the  only 
real  cause  of  its  impracticability  being,  as  a  rule,  in 
the  reluctance  of  the  average  man  to  be  loyal  to  self- 
evident  truth  and  inward  conviction.  His  influence 
upon  the  best  minds  of  his  generation  has  been  very 
great;  and  of  this  we  cannot  have  a  surer  witness 


RUSKIN:  CHARACTERISTICS  275 

than  the  saying  of  George  Eliot,  '  I  venerate  Ruskin 
as  one  of  the  greatest  teachers  of  the  age  ; '  and  the 
advice  of  Carlyle  to  Emerson, '  Do  you  read  Ruskin's 
Fors  Clavigerat  If  you  don't,  do:  I  advise  you. 
Also,  whatever  else  he  is  now  writing.  There  is 
nothing  going  on  among  us  so  notable  to  me.' 
Much  of  the  social  movement  of  our  day  is  the 
direct  fruit  of  his  teaching,  while  it  is  the  testimony 
of  Sir  John  Lubbock  that  he  has  done  far  more  for 
science  than  Goethe,  because  without  making  any 
pretence  to  profound  scientific  knowledge,  he  has 
used  an  extraordinary  faculty  of  observation  in  such 
a  way  as  to  teach  people  what  to  observe,  and  in 
what  spirit  to  accept  the  facts  of  nature  without 
missing  the  poetry  of  nature.  But  all  these  claims 
are  insignificant  beside  his  supreme  claim  as  a 
great  religious  teacher.  Religion  is,  after  all,  the 
keynote  and  inspiration  of  all  his  work,  and  his 
final  message  may  be  stated  in  his  own  words : 
'  All  the  world  is  but  as  one  orphanage,  so  long  as 
its  children  know  not  God  their  Father ;  and  all 
wisdom  and  knowledge  is  only  more  bewildered 
darkness,  so  long  as  you  have  not  taught  them  the 
fear  of  the  Lord.'  It  is  this  religious  passion  that 
drew  from  George  Eliot,  and  commands  from  us,  the 
testimony,  '  He  teaches  with  the  inspiration  of  a 
Hebrew  prophet.' 


CHAPTER  XXI 

JOHN    HENRY   NEWMAN 

[Born  in  London,  2ist  February,  iSoi.  Elected  Fellow  of  Oriel 
College,  1822.  First  book,  The  Arians  of  the  Fourth  Century, 
published  1833.  Published  Tract  XC  in  1841.  Resigned  the 
Vicarage  of  St.  Mary's,  Oxford,  1843.  Received  into  the  Roman 
Church  October  9th  1845.  Published  Loss  and  Gain,  1848; 
Sermons  to  Mixed  Congregations,  1849;  Callista,  1855.  Wrote 
The  Dream  of  Gerontius,  1865  ;  Apologia  Vitd  Sua,  1864-5  » 
The  Grammar  of  Assent,  1870.  Created  Cardinal,  May  1879. 
Died,  August  nth,  1890.] 

THE  life  of  Newman  possesses  all  the  fascination  of 
the  enigma.  He  dominates  us  by  force  of  a  lonely 
and  inscrutable  individuality.  He  is  by  turns  a  child 
and  a  casuist,  a  poet  and  a  philosopher ;  at  once 
simple  and  profound,  direct  and  subtle.  Whatever 
he  thinks  or  does,  and  however  much  we  dislike  his 
conclusions  or  his  actions,  yet  he  compels  our  interest, 
our  deep  and  unflagging  interest.  What  greater 
proof  can  we  have  of  the  elemental  charm  of  the 
man,  than  that  those  who  hated  his  ecclesiastical 
views  could  rarely  bring  themselves  to  speak  harshly 
of  him,  and  that  dire  as  was  the  blow  which  he  struck 
at  Protestantism,  yet  all  intelligent  Protestants  regard 
him  with  affection  ?  The  only  other  great  author 
one  can  name  as  possessing  in  so  high  a  degree  this 
gift  of  elemental  charm  is  Shelley.  When  the  worst 
that  can  be  said  has  been  said  about  Shelley's  errors, 

276 


JOHN  HENR  Y  NE IV MA N  277 

still  there  remains  in  us  a  profound  love  of  the  man  ; 
he  also  fascinates  us  by  the  compulsion  of  a  lonely 
and  inscrutable  individuality. 

The  parallel  might  be  pushed  further.  Leopardi, 
in  an  admirable  phrase,  has  described  Shelley  as  '  a 
Titan  in  a  virgin's  form.'  A  certain  virginal  fresh- 
ness, the  very  dew  of  childhood,  never  left  the  nature 
of  Shelley  ;  yet  he  was  a  world-force  in  the  strength 
of  his  intellect.  The  most  alluring  element  in  New- 
man is  the  same  virginal  freshness  of  nature.  We 
become  conscious  as  we  read  his  pages  not  merely 
of  an  exquisite  lucidity  of  style,  but  of  a  yet  more 
exquisite  purity  of  emotion  in  the  writer.  An  angel, 
writing  about  the  sins  and  follies  of  human  life, 
might  have  written  as  Newman  did  ;  but  it  is  rarely 
given  to  mortal  to  know  life  so  intimately,  and  yet 
survey  it  from  so  detached  a  standpoint.  No  doubt 
the  real  secret  of  his  power  over  the  world  was  this 
detachment  from  the  world,  for  it  is  ever  the  unworldly 
who  effect  the  most  enduring  conquests  of  the  human 
heart.  And  unworldliness  is  but  another  name  for 
the  temper  of  the  child.  Add  to  this  temper  great 
force  of  intellect,  and  you  have  the  combination 
described  by  Leopardi — '  a  Titan  in  a  virgin's  form.' 

The  chief  characteristic  of  the  man  of  genius  is 
this  peculiar  magnetism  of  person  and  character. 
It  is  this  which  differentiates  him  from  the  man  of 
talent,  or  the  mere  accomplished  writer.  The  world 
desires  to  know  all  that  can  be  known  about  Dickens 
and  Thackeray,  but  it  has  not  the  smallest  curiosity 
about  Reade  or  Trollope  ;  it  seizes  eagerly  on  every 
scrap  of  information  about  Carlyle,  but  it  is  absolutely 
indifferent  to  the  private  life  of  Froude.  In  the  actual 
battle  of  the  books  the  victories  of  talent  are  often 


278  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

confused  with  the  achievements  of  genius  ;  nay,  more 
it  happens  not  seldom  that  talent  is  rewarded  while 
genius  is  neglected.  But,  however  tardy  may  be  the 
process,  genius  never  fails  to  come  by  its  own.  Books 
spring  out  of  character;  in  Cromwell's  phrase,  'the 
mind  is  the  man.'  Provided  always  that  a  man  of 
genius  has  enough  literary  craft  rightly  to  express 
his  temperament,  to  give  a  sincere  and  vital  record 
of  the  processes  of  his  own  mind,  he  cannot  but 
compel  attention.  The  interest  aroused  by  his  writ- 
ings is  subtly  fused  into  the  interest  which  he  exercises 
as  a  man.  This  is  pre-eminently  the  case  with  New- 
man. He  possessed  all  the  characteristics  of  the 
man  of  genius,  and  was  able  to  express  himself  by 
the  vehicle  of  an  almost  perfect  style. 

To  narrate  the  early  life  of  Newman  would  be 
equivalent  to  writing  the  history  of  the  Oxford  move- 
ment— a  task  quite  outside  the  competence  of  these 
pages.  One  or  two  points  only  may  be  noted.  When 
Newman  took  up  his  residence  in  Oxford  he  found 
vital  religion  at  its  lowest  ebb.  Those  who  will  take 
the  pains  to  consult  Mr.  Mozley's  Reminiscences  will 
find  ample  proof  of  a  condition  of  things  wellnigh 
incredible  to  us  to-day.  All  sense  of  the  Church  as 
a  divine  institution  had  perished,  and  he  who  had 
described  a  cleric  as  a  man  with  a  divine  mission 
would  have  been  laughed  at.  The  path  to  prefer- 
ment in  the  Church  of  England  was  a  competent 
knowledge  of  Greek.  '  Improve  your  Greek,  and  do 
not  waste  your  time  in  visiting  the  poor,'  was  the 
actual  advice  given  by  a  respected  prelate  to  his 
candidates  for  ordination.  The  direst  threat,  accord- 
ing to  Mr.  Mozley,  which  could  be  held  over  the  head 
of  an  idle  schoolboy  was  that  he  would  have  to  be 


JOHN  HENR  Y  NE  WMAN  279 

a  country  curate  and  keep  the  accounts  of  a  coal 
fund.  The  amount  of  downright  jobbery  in  the 
administration  of  Church  patronage  was  enormous. 
Naturally  it  followed  that  the  most  incompetent  of 
men  held  sacred  offices,  and  parishes  were  neglected. 
The  condition  of  public  worship  itself  was  often 
scandalous.  There  was  neither  order,  reverence,  nor 
decency.  Services  were  droned  or  gabbled  through ; 
a  stale  homily  of  the  baldest  and  briefest  description 
served  for  a  sermon  ;  magnificent  edifices,  erected  by 
the  piety  and  genius  of  former  generations,  were 
allowed  to  fall  into  shameful  disrepair ;  wherever 
one  turned,  in  short,  there  were  evidences  of  moral 
laxity,  spiritual  faithlessness,  and  shameless  insin- 
cerity and  worldliness. 

Newman  had  been  trained  in  Evangelicalism.  He 
tells  us  that  the  books  which  most  impressed  him  in 
boyhood  were  the  works  of  Scott,  the  commentator, 
Romaine,  and  Law.  These  works  were  standards 
among  the  evangelicals,  and  from  them  not  merely  a 
strict  system  of  theology,  but  a  very  high  ideal  of 
conduct  might  be  derived.  Newman,  reading  them 
in  the  first  ardour  and  fresh  sincerity  of  youth,  found 
them  of  infinite  service.  What  impressed  him  most 
in  Scott  was  'a  bold  unworldliness,'  what  became 
most  cogent  to  him  in  the  reading  of  Law's  Serious 
Call  was  the  certainty  of  future  rewards  and  punish- 
ments. It  was  entirely  characteristic  of  Newman 
from  boyhood  to  old  age  that  all  truths,  or  what  he 
held  to  be  truths,  had  a  strange  vividness  for  him. 
Dreamy,  sensitive,  imaginative  in  the  highest  and 
rarest  degree,  a  truth  took  almost  concrete  form  for 
him  ;  it  dominated  him  ;  it  was  a  divine  compulsion 
laid  upon  his  intellect  and  conscience.     This  state 


28o  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

of  mind  is  recorded  in  his  famous  saying  that  for 
him  there  were  'two  and  two  only,  supreme  and 
luminously  self-evident  beings,  myself  and  my 
Creator.'  This  is  the  precise  attitude  of  Calvinism, 
and  in  the  evangelical  ideas  of  Newman,  as  in  the 
common  evangelical  theology  of  the  time,  there  was 
a  powerful  leaven  of  Calvinism.  To  a  mind  occupied 
and  dominated  by  such  a  conception  as  this,  un- 
worldliness  is  a  necessity.  The  world  and  the  lusts 
of  the  world  fade  away  into  nothingness  ;  worldly 
success  has  no  allurement,  worldly  privation  no 
terror ;  the  sublime  scenery  of  eternity  is  put  round 
human  life,  the  awful  and  inspiring  vision  of  a  world 
to  come  attends  the  lowliest  tasks  of  conduct,  and 
the  most  coveted  rewards  of  earth  become  incom- 
mensurate beside  the  supreme  felicities  of  heaven. 
Such  was  the  actual  temper  produced  in  Newman 
by  the  study  of  evangelical  theology,  but  it  was  very 
far  from  being  the  temper  of  the  average  evangelical 
of  his  day.  The  first  great  shock  and  disappointment 
of  Newman's  religious  life  was  the  discovery  that  the 
heart  had  been  taken  out  of  Evangelicalism.  Here 
and  there,  of  course,  sincere  and  earnest  men  were 
to  be  found,  but  with  the  great  majority  faith  was 
tepid,  and  conduct  an  ingenious  compromise  between 
an  unworldly  creed  and  a  worldly  life.  It  was  this 
discovery  which  started  Newman  on  his  work  of 
religious  reformation.  He  felt  that  the  one  thing 
essential  for  the  nation,  and  the  one  object  in  his 
own  life  worth  supreme  devotion,  was  to  bring  men 
back  to  a  living  faith  in  God  and  the  unseen. 

That  work,  as  he  understood  it,  could  only  be 
achieved  by  making  the  voyage  of  religious  investi- 
gation.    Mr.  R.  H.  Hutton  applies  with  rare  felicity 


JOHN  HENR  V  NE  WMAN  28 1 

to  the  thinking  aspects  of  Newman's  life  the  great 

lines  of  Wordsworth  : 

The  intellectual  powers  through  words  and  things, 
Went  sounding  on,  a  dim  and  perilous  way. 

New  truths,  like  new  worlds,  are  not  found  without 
voyages  of  discovery.  Faith  is  the  last  crystallisa- 
tion of  many  processes  of  doubt.  A  very  short 
residence  at  Oxford  convinced  Newman  that  among 
all  serious  and  thoughtful  men  religion  had  somehow 
fallen  into  disrepute.  The  question  was  how  to 
deliver  religion  from  this  disrepute.  There  must 
be  somewhere  in  religion  a  vital  core,  an  indestruct- 
ible citadel.  Christianity  might  present  a  thousand 
difficulties,  but  some  reconciliation  of  these  difficulties 
must  be  possible.  For  himself,  Newman  sharply 
distinguished  between  difficulties  and  doubts.  'Ten 
thousand  difficulties  do  not  make  one  doubt,'  he 
said;  'difficulty  and  doubt  are  incommensurate.' 
The  existence  of  God,  he  was  wont  to  say,  was  at 
once  the  most  difficult,  and  yet  the  most  indubitable 
of  truths.  Granted  that  Christianity  had  difficulties; 
the  question  is,  are  these  difficulties  in  their  total 
combination  such  as  make  valid  a  general  doubt  of 
Christianity?  Or,  again,  great  as  are  the  difficulties 
of  faith,  are  not  the  difficulties  of  disbelief  still 
greater?  Careless  students  of  Newman,  and  even 
such  a  writer  as  Huxley,  have  fallen  into  the  error 
of  describing  Newman's  mind  as  essentially  scep- 
tical. His  mind  was  singularly  open,  sincere  and  sym- 
pathetic, but  in  the  true  sense  it  was  the  reverse  of 
sceptical.  It  was  rather  an  inquiring  mind  supported 
by  the  clearest  spiritual  intuitions  ;  and  thus,  while 
no  man  can  state  an  intellectual  difficulty  with  such 
charity,   fairness,   and    precision,  none   could   show 


282  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

less  disposition  to  linger  in  the  shadows  of  mere 
philosophic  doubt. 

In  this  brief  and  inadequate  statement  we  have 
the  real  clue  to  Newman's  career.  Compromise  was 
the  keynote  of  the  Oxford  life  of  his  day,  and  indeed 
of  the  life  of  the  English  Church  as  a  whole.  The 
popular  Oxford  creed  was  that  there  was  '  nothing 
new,  and  nothing  true,  and  it  didn't  matter' ;  and  it 
was  scarcely  an  irony  to  describe  the  prayer  of  an 
Oxford  don  as  '  O  God,  if  there  be  a  God,  save  my 
soul,  if  I  have  a  soul.'  Newman  hated  compromise 
with  his  whole  soul.  A  thing  was  either  true  or 
false,  but  it  could  not  be  both.  He  would  shrink 
from  the  investigation  of  no  real  difficulty,  but  he 
would  not,  and  could  not,  leave  it  in  doubt.  His 
mind  was  essentially  dogmatic.  '  From  the  age  of 
fifteen,'  he  says  in  the  Apologia,  '  dogma  has  been 
the  fundamental  principle  of  my  religion.  I  know 
no  other  religion ;  I  cannot  enter  into  the  idea  of 
any  other  sort  of  religion  ;  religion  as  a  mere  senti- 
ment is  to  me  a  dream  and  a  mockery.  As  well  can 
there  be  filial  love  without  the  fact  of  a  father,  as 
devotion  without  the  fact  of  a  Supreme  Being.'  It 
was  incredible  that  if  there  were  a  Supreme  Being 
who  had  created  man,  this  Being  should  have 
furnished  man  with  nothing  better  than  an  enigma 
to  guide  him  in  his  passage  through  the  world ; 
still  more  incredible  that  if  there  were  a  divinely 
organised  Church  on  earth,  it  should  not  be  known 
by  certain  infallible  signs.  Where  were  these  signs? 
And  with  that  question  Newman  began  his  journey 
toward  Rome.  We  may  hold  what  opinions  we  will 
about  the  nature  of  the  logic  by  which  Newman 
convinced  himself  that  in  Catholicism  alone  was  the 


JOHN  HENR  Y  NE  WMAN  2S3 

proper  and  secure  refuge  of  the  soul ;  but  whatever 
our  opinions  we  cannot  resist  the  impressiveness  of 
the  spectacle  which  Newman  presents  of  the  struggle 
of  a  lonely,  reserved,  sensitive  and  perfectly  sincere 
soul  to  find  a  surer  faith  its  own. 

It  is  this  spectacle  which  is  visible  in  all  Newman's 
writings.  With  all  his  reticence,  a  reticence  which 
almost  amounted  to  shyness,  he  is  the  most  auto- 
biographical of  writers.  When  we  least  expect  it, 
in  a  sermon  or  an  essay,  or  even  in  an  historical 
disquisition,  we  come  upon  some  enchanting  glimpse 
of  himself — something  that  turns  the  page  into  a 
vivid  study  of  a  temperament.  With  most  writers 
this  would  be  an  offence,  and  in  course  of  time  would 
v/ear  the  aspect  of  artifice ;  but  in  Newman's  case 
all  that  he  wrote  is  wrought  so  thoroughly  out  of 
himself,  is  so  intimate  an  expression  of  his  own 
nature,  that  it  seems  perfectly  natural  and  appro- 
priate. Ruskin,  in  his  later  writings,  has  followed 
the  same  method  ;  but  Ruskin's  style,  even  at  its 
best,  is  rarely  free  from  the  suspicion  of  artifice. 
Sometimes,  indeed,  we  have  an  uncomfortable  sensa- 
tion that  Ruskin  writes  with  a  full  consciousness  of 
his  own  eloquence  ;  it  is  not  in  the  least  that  he  is 
insincere,  but  simply  that  he  is  too  fully  aware  of 
his  sincerity.  Newman,  in  his  greatest  flights  of 
eloquence,  and  in  the  passages  which  most  directly 
call  attention  to  the  nature  of  his  own  thoughts, 
experiences  and  emotions,  always  leaves  us  with 
the  sense  of  something  quite  spontaneous  and 
natural.  Probably  the  thought  of  literary  fame 
never  once  entered  into  Newman's  mind.  He  was  at 
all  times  too  detached  from  the  world  to  be  unduly 
sensible  of  its  praise  or  blame,  especially  in  what  he 


284  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 


would  have  regarded  as  the  puerility  of  literary 
reputation.  In  describing  the  emotions  of  his  boy- 
hood, he  once  wrote : — '  I  thought  life  might  be  a 
dream,  and  I  an  angel,  and  all  this  world  a  deception, 
my  fellow-angels  hiding  themselves  from  me,  and 
deceiving  me  with  the  semblance  of  a  material 
world.'  This  note  of  the  utter  deceptiveness  of 
material  things  is  struck  again  and  again  in  his 
writings.  It  would  be  hard  to  parallel  among  the 
greatest  masters  of  the  English  language  this 
description  of  the  world,  which  occurs  in  a  sermon 
on  The  Mental  sufferings  of  Our  Lord  in  His  Passion : 
— 'Hopes  blighted,  vows  broken,  lights  quenched, 
warnings  scorned,  opportunities  lost ;  the  innocent 
betrayed,  the  young  hardened,  the  penitent  relapsing, 
the  just  overcome,  the  aged  falling  ;  the  sophistry 
of  misbelief,  the  wilfulness  of  passion,  the  obduracy 
of  pride,  the  tyranny  of  habit,  the  canker  of  remorse, 
the  wasting  power  of  care,  the  anguish  of  shame, 
the  pining  of  disappointment,  the  sickness  of  despair; 
such  cruel,  such  pitiable  spectacles,  such  heart- 
rending, revolting,  detestable,  maddening  scenes ; 
nay,  the  haggard  faces,  the  convulsed  lips,  the  flushed 
cheek,  the  dark  brow  of  the  willing  victims  of  re- 
bellion, they  are  all  before  Him  now,  they  are  upon 
Him  and  in  Him.'  And  that  which  most  effectually 
drove  Newman  out  of  the  English  Church  was  the 
utter  worldliness  of  its  spirit.  For  him  the  material 
world  was  a  dream  and  an  evil  dream  ;  but  it  was 
only  too  sadly  apparent  that  for  the  great  mass  of 
those  who  professed  and  called  themselves  Chris- 
tians, whatever  they  might  say,  the  material  world 
was  the  only  reality.  His  test  was  simple ;  did 
average  Christians  in   their   daily  conduct  do  any- 


JOHN  HENR  Y  NE  WMAN  285 

thing  they  would  not  do,  or  refrain  from  doing  any- 
thing they  would  do,  out  of  a  profound  conviction 
that  Christianity  was  true  ;  or  would  they  do  any- 
thing they  did  not  now  do,  if  they  were  convinced 
that  Christianity  was  false?  His  reply  was  that 
interest  coincided  with  duty,  and  thus,  whereas  the 
distinct  Christian  command  was  that  Christians 
were  not  to  love  the  world,  Christians  did  love  the 
world,  were  as  eager  for  its  rewards  as  other  people, 
and  practised  Christian  virtues  not  out  of  regard  to 
Christianity,  but  merely  because  they  were  con- 
venient and  profitable.  And  the  more  he  thought 
on  this  theme,  the  clearer  became  the  vision  of  the 
Roman  communion  as  one  in  which  self-sacrifice 
was  an  authentic  fact,  and  the  absolute  renunciation 
of  the  world  a  practised  law.  In  a  very  remarkable 
sermon  at  St.  Mary's  he  elaborates  this  theme  with 
rare  felicity.  Two  years  were  yet  to  elapse  before 
his  final  separation  from  the  English  Church,  but 
already  he  speaks  with  reverent  admiration  of  the 
'  humble  monks  and  holy  nuns,  who  have  hearts 
weaned  from  the  world,  and  wills  subdued,  and  for 
their  meekness  meet  with  insult,  and  for  their  purity 
with  slander,  and  for  their  gravity  with  suspicion, 
and  for  their  courage  with  cruelty.'  When  we  collate 
such  passages  as  these,  passages  which  reflect  with 
an  exquisite  precision  Newman's  own  temperament 
and  habitual  thought,  we  begin  to  see  that  it  was 
less  the  logic  of  Newman  than  his  temperament 
which  made  him  a  Catholic. 

As  a  sermon-writer  Newman  has  no  superior  in 
the  English  language,  either  for  range  or  style.  He 
combined  in  the  most  felicitous  degree  two  qualities 
seldom  combined,   simplicity    and    profundity.     To 


286  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

the  philosophic  reader  probably  some  of  his 
University  sermons  will  appear  the  greatest  ;  but, 
after  all,  his  rarest  power  lay  not  in  the  direction  of 
philosophy,  but  poetry.  It  is  when  he  speaks  as  a 
poet ;  when  he  analyses  human  motives,  lays  bare 
the  human  heart,  cuts  through  the  core  of  con- 
vention to  the  naked  quivering  human  soul  and 
conscience  ;  when  he  speaks  of  death  and  eternity,  of 
the  solemn,  tender  things  of  human  life,  and  the 
more  solemn  and  awful  things  of  the  life  to  come  ; 
when  he  draws  broad  imaginative  pictures  of  the 
evil  of  the  world,  of  the  contrasts  in  human  action 
and  destiny,  of  the  felicities  or  terrors  that  lie  beyond 
the  hour  of  Judgment,  of  heroic  or  saintly  episodes 
in  memorable  lives,  of  the  different  ways  in  which 
men  regard  things,  of  the  littleness  and  greatness 
of  man,  his  rare  consciousness  of,  or  his  habitual 
indifference  to,  the  splendours  of  the  spiritual  uni- 
verse, and  its  reality — it  is  then  that  he  is  greatest. 
In  such  passages  he  produces  an  effect  not  merely 
not  rivalled,  but  not  attempted  by  any  other.  And 
the  effect  is  greatly  heightened  by  the  simplicity  of 
the  means  employed.  Magnificent  as  this  or  that 
passage  may  appear  to  us,  yet  we  find,  upon  exami- 
nation, that  it  is  composed  of  the  plainest  words, 
and  there  is  not  a  word  that  could  be  bettered,  nor 
one  altered,  without  serious  damage  both  to  the 
sense  and  melody  of  the  passage.  Among  his 
sermons  is  a  very  powerful  one  on  Unreal  Words,  in 
which  he  argues  that  words  are  real  things,  that 
insincere  language  is  the  expression  of  an  insincere 
temper,  and  that  '  words  have  a  meaning,  whether 
we  mean  that  meaning  or  not';  certainly  Newman 
never    uses  a    word   without    the  most    scrupulous 


JO HN  HENR  Y  NE IVMAN  2S7 

regard  to  its  real  meaning,  and  hence  the  convincing 
sincerity,  as  well  as  the  literary  compactness  of  his 
style.  Opinions  will  differ  as  to  whether  Newman's 
greatest  sermons  are  those  preached  before  or  after 
his  conversion.  The  first  represent  more  fully  the 
workings  of  the  intellect  and  heart,  the  second  the 
freedom  of  the  imagination  and  the  poetic  instinct. 
If  one  were  called  upon  to  mention  any  single 
sermon,  which  more  than  any  other  reveals  the  poet, 
perhaps  the  most  striking  would  be  that  upon  the 
Fitness  of  the  Glories  of  Mary,  with  its  most  solemn 
and  beautiful  close : — '  But  she,  the  lily  of  Eden, 
who  had  always  dwelt  out  of  the  sight  of  man, 
willingly  did  she  die  in  the  garden's  shade;  and 
amid  the  sweet  flowers  in  which  she  had  lived.' 
Such  sermons  delight  the  mind  with  an  effect  more 
often  produced  by  music  than  by  language  ;  some- 
times, indeed,  by  the  highest  kind  of  lyric  poetry, 
but  very  rarely  indeed  by  prose ;  and  thinking  of 
them,  we  think  less  of  their  substance,  than  of  some 
rare,  almost  unnameable  quality,  subtly  akin  to  both 
fragrance  and  melody,  which  pervades  them. 

Newman's  greatest  book  is  his  Apologia  Vita  Sua. 
Where  else  can  we  find  such  fascinating  glimpses  of 
autobiography,  such  frank  confessions,  such  subtle 
delineations  of  motive  ?  Yet  the  book  was  the  work 
of  accident.  Had  not  Kingsley  in  an  unguarded 
moment  accused  Newman  of  teaching  that  truth  was 
no  virtue,  there  had  been  no  Apologia.  Newman 
retorted  with  vehement  denial,  then  with  one  of  the 
most  accomplished  pieces  of  witty  irony  which  he 
ever  wrote.  But  the  taunt  hurt  him  more  deeply 
than  he  was  willing  to  confess ;  and  hence  there 
grew  up  the  idea  of  stating  in  precise  language  what 


288  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

his  life  had  really  been,  and  what  were  the  motives 
which  impelled  it.  It  is  by  no  means  a  perfect  book, 
and  it  might  easily  have  been  a  better  book.  It 
bears  too  visibly  the  marks  of  controversy ;  it  was 
hastily  composed ;  many  things  which  no  doubt 
appeared  clear  enough  to  Newman  are  not  stated 
very  clearly,  and  some  links  in  the  logic  are  missing. 
It  needs  some  temerity  to  say  this  of  a  book  so 
justly  famous,  but  few  dispassionate  readers  will 
close  the  Apologia  without  feeling  that  occasionally 
Newman's  logic  is  puzzling,  and  that  as  he  drew 
nearer  to  Rome  his  attitude  of  mind  became  less 
judicial,  and  less  capable  of  vindication.  But  when 
all  such  deductions  are  made,  there  is  no  auto- 
biography in  the  English  language  which  possesses 
in  so  rare  a  degree  the  elements  of  fascination.  Nor 
is  there  one  that  contains  so  many  great  passages, 
which  seem  to  touch  the  very  height  of  literary 
achievement.  Who  that  has  ever  read  it  can  forget 
the  passage  in  which  he  speaks  of  the  weight  of 
mystery  which  lies  on  human  life  in  the  contempla- 
tion of  the  doctrine  of  a  divine  government  ? — '  The 
tokens  so  faint  and  broken  of  a  superintending 
design,  the  blind  evolution  of  what  turns  out  to  be 
great  powers  or  truths,  the  progress  of  things  as  if 
from  unreasoning  elements,  not  towards  final  causes, 
the  greatness  and  littleness  of  man,  his  far-reaching 
aims,  his  short  duration,  the  curtain  hung  over  his 
futurity,  the  disappointments  of  life,  the  defeat  of 
good,  the  success  of  evil,  physical  pain,  mental 
anguish,  the  prevalence  and  intensity  of  sin,  the 
pervading  idolatries,  the  corruptions,  the  dreary 
hopeless  irreligion  ...  all  this  is  a  vision  to  dizzy 
and  appal  ;  and  inflicts  upon  the  mind  the  sense  of 


JOHN  HENR  Y  NE  WMAN  289 

a  profound  mystery,  which  is  absolutely  without 
human  solution  !  '  This  is  the  utterance  of  a  poet, 
and  it  is  an  excellent  example  of  Newman's  peculiar 
eloquence  —  lofty  and  yet  simple,  capable  of  the 
largest  pictorial  effects  yet  severely  reticent,  austere 
and  tender,  classic  and  colloquial,  delicate  and  virile, 
the  product  of  consummate  art  yet  apparently  artless 
— an  eloquence  which  penetrates  and  overwhelms 
the  mind,  and,  once  heard,  leaves  behind  it  echoes 
which  never  die  away. 

Newman,  while  never  attempting  to  make  author- 
ship a  profession,  or  even  an  aim  in  life,  was  never- 
theless a  prolific  author.  His  books  grew  out  of 
himself,  out  of  the  passing  conditions  and  conflicts 
of  his  life ;  but  these  conditions  were  so  vividly 
realised,  and  these  conflicts  so  numerous,  that  he 
was  an  incessant  writer.  Books  that  sprang  out 
of  controversy  are  apt  to  perish  with  the  contro- 
versies which  begat  them  ;  and  no  doubt  much  of 
Newman's  work  will  from  this  cause  be  forgotten. 
But  even  in  those  of  his  writings  least  consonant 
with  later  thought  and  taste,  there  will  always  be 
much  to  repay  the  student.  His  purity  of  style 
never  deserted  him,  even  when  his  theme  was  of  the 
driest,  and  his  logic  most  faulty.  His  least-known 
books  abound  in  delightful  surprises  ;  not  merely  in 
passages  of  entrancing  self-revelation  or  splendid 
eloquence,  but  of  incisive  wit,  of  delicate  irony,  of 
caustic  and  overpowering  satire.  In  one  department 
of  literature  only  did  he  fail  :  he  had  no  gift  for 
fiction,  though  many  passages  in  his  story  of  Callista 
have  excited  the  admiration  of  competent  critics. 
But  any  failure  in  the  art  of  fiction  is  more  than 
compensated  by  his  mastery  of  poetry.     Is  there  in 

T 


290  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

our  English  literature  any  poem  of  similar  aim  so 
powerful  and  intense  as  the  Dream  of  Gerontius? 
Assuredly  this  is  one  of  the  great  poems  of  the 
world,  in  spirit  and  substance  akin  to  Goethe's  Faust 
and  Dante's  Trilogy,  in  depth  of  spiritual  insight  and 
emotion  superior  to  the  former  and  the  equal  of  the 
latter,  and  in  purity  of  expression  comparable  with 
the  finest  work  of  the  greatest  poets.  It  is  also  the 
most  characteristic  fruit  of  Newman's  genius.  For 
by  birth  and  training,  by  temperament  and  life, 
Newman  was  essentially  a  religious  genius,  a 
prophet  to  whom  doors  of  vision  stood  wide  where 
other  men  saw  only  impenetrable  darkness ;  yet  so 
sensitively  sympathetic,  that  he  knew  the  weight  of 
darkness  which  crushed  others,  although  he  never 
once  succumbed  to  it ;  and  it  is  by  virtue  of  this 
temperament  and  genius  that  he  will  always  be 
reckoned  the  greatest  religious  writer  whom  England 
has  produced — perhaps  also  the  greatest  since 
Augustine  and  Aquinas. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

FREDERICK   W.   ROBERTSON 

[Born  in  London,  February  3,  18 16.  Ordained,  July  1840.  Curate  at 
Christ  Church,  Cheltenham,  1842.  Incumbent  of  Trinity  Chapel, 
Brighton,  1847.  Died  August  15,  1853.  Life  by  Stopford 
Brooke  published,  1865.] 

ROBERTSON  of  Brighton,  as  he  is  familiarly  known, 
shares  with  John  Henry  Newman  the  distinction  of 
having  profoundly  affected  the  religious  thought  of 
the  latter  half  of  the  nineteenth  century.  The 
small  brown  volumes  containing  the  sermons  which 
he  preached  to  a  relatively  insignificant  congregation 
in  Brighton,  about  the  time  of  the  early  fifties,  are 
known  throughout  the  world.  They  are  found  in 
libraries  where  no  other  sermons  have  a  chance  of 
admittance,  and  are  read  by  men  who  hold  in  scorn 
the  average  productions  of  the  religious  press.  They 
have  had  a  popularity  exceeding  that  of  many  of 
the  best-known  novels,  and  a  more  lasting  sale  than 
that  of  the  most  familiar  biographies.  They  have 
influenced  the  theological  thought  of  their  time  in 
an  extraordinary  degree,  and  have  given  a  new 
impulse,  character,  and  fashion  to  the  preaching  of 
the  age  itself.  Men  of  all  creeds,  parties,  and  sects 
have  derived  inspiration  from  them,  and  while  much 
that  seemed  startling  in  their  statements  forty  years 
ago  has  now  become  commonplace,  yet  there  is  no 

2!»1 


292  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 


sign  of  diminished  influence.  Probably,  in  the  entire 
history  of  literature,  no  sermons  have  ever  attained 
a  success  so  wide  and  wonderful ;  and  it  has  not 
been  that  sort  of  fame  which  depends  on  personal 
reputation,  but  the  steadier  and  more  enduring  fame 
which  works  of  great  literary  art  and  genius  alone 
can  hope  to  secure. 

Yet,  it  is  singular  to  reflect,  authorship  formed  no 
part  of  the  purpose  or  employment  of  Robertson's 
life.     Publicity  he  detested,  and  even  pulpit  popu- 
larity pained  him.     In  one  of  his  letters  he  regrets 
that  he  has  been  over-persuaded  into  publishing  a 
sermon — the   only  sermon  he  ever   published — and 
speaks  of  his  weakness  as  a  folly  not  to  be  repeated. 
It  is  by  one  of  the  fortunate  accidents  of  literature 
that  his  pulpit  utterances  have  been  preserved  at  all. 
At  one  time  he  formed  a  habit  of  writing  what  he 
could    recall   of  a   discourse   immediately  after   its 
delivery;  from  these  papers,  and  from  certain  short- 
hand reports  of  his  sermons,  all  our  knowledge  of 
his  genius  has  been  gained.     For  his  sermons  were 
in  the  strictest  sense  'utterances.'     He  was  not  an 
extempore  preacher  in  the  loose  acceptation  of  that 
phrase,   since  every  discourse  was  elaborated  with 
the  most  painstaking  care  of  a  singularly  exact  and 
analytic  mind,  but  his  method  of  delivery  was  ex- 
tempore.    Standing  perfectly  still,  speaking  in  a  low 
and   beautifully  modulated  voice,  at   first  he  made 
some  use  of  his  notes ;  but  before  he  had  spoken 
many  minutes  he  had  discarded   them.     He  spoke 
with  intense  passion,  yet  with  perfect  restraint.     At 
the  very  height  of  oratory  he  never  ceased  to  be  the 
calm,  lucid  thinker,  the  austere  worshipper  of  exact 
truth.     Loose  statement  was  as  abhorrent  to  him 


FREDERICK  W.  ROBERTSON  293 


as  loose  living.  Perhaps  more  abhorrent  still  was 
cheap  praise ;  the  sort  of  adulation  which  follows 
the  popular  orator  among  those  who  are  in  love  with 
his  gift,  but  indifferent  to  his  message. 

It  is  necessary  to  notice  these  characteristics  of 
the  man  if  we  are  rightly  to  estimate  the  nature  of 
his  genius.  Most  readers  of  Mr.  Stopford  Brooke's 
admirable  biography  derive  from  it  an  impression  of 
some  curious  and  unusual  element  in  Robertson, 
which  they  can  only  describe  as  '  morbid.'  A  more 
correct  term  would  perhaps  be  'super-sensitive/ for 
morbidity  carries  with  it  a  suggestion  of  unwholesome- 
ness  and  bitterness  quite  foreign  to  Robertson's  tem- 
perament. The  facts  of  the  case  appear  to  be  these. 
Robertson  came  from  a  military  stock,  and  was 
always  in  love  with  a  life  of  action  and  adventure. 
He  writes  in  one  of  his  letters  that  he  ought  now  to 
be  at  rest  with  the  heroes  of  Moodkee,  over  whose 
bosoms  the  grass  is  growing;  and  goes  on  to  explain 
himself  by  saying  that  he  supposes  that  his  desire 
for  a  soldier's  life  really  means  a  desire  to  see  his  foe 
concrete  and  palpable  before  him.  In  such  a  con- 
fession we  find  the  keynote  of  Robertson's  character. 
By  temperament  he  was  a  man  of  action  and  a 
fighter  ;  circumstances  made  him  the  perpetual  curate 
of  an  insignificant  chapel-of-ease  in  a  fashionable 
watering-place.  He  soon  found  himself  an  object 
of  suspicion  and  slander,  and  of  that  intensely  spite- 
ful sort  of  hatred  which  is  peculiar  to  the  clerical 
mind.  No  doubt  he  also  met  much  that  made  him 
aware  of  the  hollowness  and  insincerity  of  con- 
ventional religion.  Robertson  was  not  the  sort  of 
man  whose  nature  could  be  subdued  to  the  element 
in   which  it  worked.     In    such  a   situation   a  little 


294  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

judicious  egotism,  even  a  little  rational  vanity,  is 
an  invaluable  defence.  Robertson  united  with  the 
strongest  will  a  real  distrust  of  himself.  He  could 
take  up  a  position  which  he  believed  to  be  right, 
and  stand  by  it  inflexibly,  but  not  without  much 
secret  self-torture.  And  with  all  his  humility,  there 
was  also  in  his  character  a  certain  strain  of  scorn  ; 
scorn  of  the  pettiness  of  the  controversies  into  which 
he  was  forced,  scorn  of  the  untruthfulness  and 
meanness  of  his  opponents,  scorn  even  of  himself, 
that  he  who  would  have  welcomed  a  soldier's  death 
upon  the  battlefield,  should  have  become  a  popular 
preacher  in  a  gossiping  watering-place. 

Such  a  state  of  mind  is  no  doubt  uncommon,  but 
genius  also  is  uncommon,  and  its  outlook  upon  life 
is  peculiar.  It  is  quite  certain  that  in  no  case  could 
a  man  of  Robertson's  temperament  have  taken  life 
easily.  Perhaps  he  expected  too  much  of  life — it 
is  the  way  with  idealists  and  enthusiasts,  yet  what 
would  the  world  be  without  them  ?  That  he  could 
enjoy  intensely,  that  he  knew  occasional  hours  of 
pure  light-heartedness,  his  letters  show  ;  but  essen- 
tially he  was  not  a  happy  man.  The  ordinary 
robust  man  knows  that  life  is  a  rough  business, 
expects  a  few  blows  and  bruises,  learns  to  laugh  at 
them,  and  at  last  judges  his  fellows  in  the  spirit  of 
Luther's  tolerant  axiom  that  'you  must  take  men 
as  they  are,  you  cannot  alter  their  natures.'  But  to 
the  super-sensitive  man  no  such  course  is  possible. 
Folly  in  the  wise,  rancour  in  the  good,  weakness  in 
the  amiable,  are  to  him  hideous  discoveries  and 
crushing  blows.  The  robust  man  works  with  the 
buzzing  of  the  flies  of  slander  round  his  head  and 
takes  no  notice  ;  with  the  sensitive  man  each  sting 


FREDERICK  W.  ROBERTSON  295 

is  felt,  each  tiny  wound  inflames,  and  slander  is  a 
veritable  torment  of  flies  in  the  dark.  One  cannot 
well  call  this  state  of  feeling  morbid.  The  impres- 
sion made  upon  us  by  Robertson's  Brighton  career 
is  of  some  exceeding  fine  and  delicate  instrument 
put  to  uses  too  rough  for  it.  He  was  ill-fitted 
for  controversy,  especially  for  the  pettiness  of 
religious  controversy ;  ill-fitted  for  the  glare  of  a 
public  life  even ;  a  man  essentially  modest  and 
reticent — guarding  his  feelings  from  the  scrutiny 
of  the  crowd,  yet  compelled  by  the  necessities  of 
his  position  to  reveal  them,  and  suffering  torture  in 
the  process.  And  his  feelings  were  all  intense,  so 
that  he  could  not  help  pouring  himself  out  emotion- 
ally upon  every  subject  that  interested  him,  to  a 
degree  quite  incredible  to  colder,  perhaps  one  might 
say  more  restrained  and  better-balanced,  natures. 
Thus,  that  which  was  his  power  as  a  preacher  was 
his  martyrdom  as  a  man. 

One  other  element  also  may  be  noticed.  Probably 
Robertson  was  not  wrong  in  his  predilection  for  a 
soldier's  life :  in  an  obscure  way  he  appears  to  have 
been  conscious  that  he  was  not  naturally  fitted  for 
the  life  of  the  thinker.  Most  men  of  genius  who 
have  attained  fame  in  literature  have  very  early  in 
life  indulged  in  literary  expression.  Even  when  the 
power  of  expression  has  come  late,  it  has  soon  grown 
into  a  passion,  and  become  the  joy  and  occupation 
of  life.  But,  as  we  have  already  seen,  the  pursuit  of 
literature  formed  no  part  of  Robertson's  life.  He  is 
a  quite  singular  instance  of  a  man  of  genius  entirely 
unconscious  of  his  own  gift.  One  might  easily  specu- 
late on  what  might  have  happened  if  Robertson  had 
not  been  a  preacher ;  would  he  have  died  with  all 


296  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 


his  music  in  him  ?  Would  he  have  found  some 
literary  ambition  suited  to  his  mind?  As  it  was, 
his  whole  genius  flowed  into  his  preaching.  Twice, 
perhaps  thrice  a  week,  he  was  forced  into  expression. 
Few  people  have  the  least  conception  of  what  such 
a  task  implies.  No  doubt  it  is  often  done,  but  it  is 
very  seldom  done  in  Robertson's  fashion.  He  put 
all  the  fulness  of  his  mind  into  his  task.  No  wonder 
he  speaks  sometimes  of  the  strain  of  his  work,  no 
wonder  that  there  are  frequent  fits  of  dejection  and 
melancholy.  And,  one  may  add,  no  wonder  that  a 
man  so  sensitively  organised  broke  down  under  the 
burden  and  died  young.  Sad  as  the  end  of  Robert- 
son was,  yet  one  cannot  but  feel  that  it  was  mercy 
that  cut -his  life  short,  and  that  his  release  was  well- 
earned.  Human  lives  may  be  measured  by  diffusion 
or  intensity ;  between  an  aged  Lear  and  Robertson 
there  appears  to  yawn  the  widest  gulf;  yet  of  the 
end  of  each  it  might  be  said — 

O  let  him  pass !     He  hates  him 
That  would  upon  the  rack  of  this  rough  world 
Stretch  him  out  longer. 

Perhaps  also,  when  we  justly  measure  the  infinite 
capacity  of  suffering  which  lies  in  super-sensitive- 
ness, we  may  add  the  final  verdict  of  Kent — 

The  wonder  is  he  hath  endured  so  long. 

The  sermons  of  Robertson  are  at  once  intimate 
and  catholic.  They  are  catholic  in  the  sense  that 
they  treat  great  questions  in  a  great  manner ;  they 
are  intimate  in  the  sense  that  they  vividly  express 
the  characteristics  of  his  own  mind.  The  quality 
which  has  done  more  than  anything  else  to  preserve 


FREDERICK  IV.  ROBERTSON  297 

them  is  no  doubt  the  power  which  emanates  from 
the  moral  nature  of  the  preacher.  It  is  said  that  a 
small  tradesman  in  Brighton  kept  in  his  shop-parlour 
a  portrait  of  Robertson  ;  whenever  he  was  tempted 
to  do  some  dishonourable  business  trick,  he  looked 
upon  his  portrait,  and,  with  those  austere  but  kindly 
eyes  gazing  into  his,  felt  he  could  not  do  it.  This 
anecdote  is  very  typical  of  the  sort  of  influence  which 
Robertson  has  exerted  over  many  minds.  He  was 
a  great  gentleman,  with  very  lofty  and  inflexible 
ideals  of  truth,  honour,  and  chivalry.  He  hated 
shams,  cant,  hypocrisy,  meanness,  evasion,  prevarica- 
tion, and  all  kindred  sins  with  a  perfect  hatred.  He 
allowed  no  illusions  to  impose  themselves  on  his 
own  reason  or  conscience,  and  he  laboured  to  remove 
all  illusions  from  the  minds  and  consciences  of  others. 
He  himself  possessed  and  kept  the  priceless  gift  of 
individuality,  which  is  but  another  phrase  for  fearless 
liberty  of  conviction.  He  was  not  deceived,  on  the 
one  hand,  by  popular  praise,  nor,  on  the  other  hand, 
turned  aside  by  a  hair's-breadth  from  his  purpose  by 
popular  suspicion.  He  urged  a  course  right  onward, 
and  made  even  his  most  virulent  adversaries  feel  his 
absolute  honesty.  And  this  invincible  honesty  char- 
acterised not  only  his  motives  but  his  thinking.  He 
went  to  the  Bible  with  no  views  to  support :  he  was 
a  searcher  after  truth,  and  the  truth  he  found  he 
preached.  The  result  is  that  his  sermons  have  a 
freshness  and  force  which  lifts  them  quite  out  of  the 
rut  of  the  best  pulpit  literature,  and  gives  them 
world-wide  application.  Not  only  are  they  alive 
with  his  own  keenness  of  thought,  but  they  are  filled 
with  his  own  moral  energy,  and  are  aglow  with  his 
own  beautiful  chivalry  of  spirit. 


298  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

Together  with  this  great  endowment  of  a  sincere 
and  unvitiated  nature  Robertson  brought  to  his  life- 
work  a  rare  combination  of  intellectual  gifts.  Chief 
among  these  must  rank  his  lucidity.  The  most 
complicated  and  difficult  theme  resolves  itself  before 
his  acute  analysis.  In  a  manner  peculiarly  his  own, 
he  seizes  upon  the  most  baffling  problems  of  Chris- 
tianity and  pours  on  them  a  flood  of  light.  One  of 
his  most  constant  hearers  once  said  that  he  had 
never  heard  him  without  having  some  difficulty 
explained,  or  some  stumbling-block  removed.  His 
very  method  of  stating  a  difficulty,  so  candid,  toler- 
ant, sympathetic,  and  complete,  often  takes  you  half- 
way to  its  solution.  It  is  not  that  there  is  anything 
startlingly  original  or  unconventional  in  form  or 
phrase ;  so  far  as  sermon  form  goes  Robertson  was 
conventional,  and  he  was  much  too  fastidious  in 
taste  to  permit  the  least  eccentricity  of  phrase.  It 
is  rather  by  clearness,  candour,  and  unaffected  sim- 
plicity that  Robertson  wins  the  mind.  The  effect  of 
one  of  his  greater  sermons  is  like  the  gradual  growth 
of  light.  The  darkness  is  not  shattered  suddenly : 
it  slowly  melts  and  dissolves.  By  what  seems 
magic,  so  potent  and  imperceptible  is  the  process, 
the  distant  grows  into  nearness,  the  vague  into  dis- 
tinctness, the  confused  into  orderliness,  and  the 
general  harmony  of  things  is  felt.  Perhaps  no 
preacher  has  ever  had  so  rare  a  faculty  of  irradiating 
a  subject. 

With  his  extreme  lucidity  of  intellect  there  is 
joined  strong  sympathy — a  combination  very  far 
from  common.  If  I  were  asked  to  state  what  is  the 
most  acute  sort  of  pain  that  human  nature  can  know, 
I  think  I  should  reply,  '  the  pain  of  sympathy.'     All 


FREDERICK  W.  ROBERTSON  299 

sympathy  is  pain,  and  in  the  degree  that  sympathy 
is  intense,  pain  is  intense.  Robertson,  far  more  than 
any  other  preacher  whose  work  has  lived,  felt  the 
pain  of  the  world,  the  tears  that  are  in  mortal  things. 
The  poor,  the  disinherited,  the  unconsidered  ;  the 
timid,  the  doubtful,  and  the  weak ;  the  lonely  and 
the  uncomprehended  in  life  and  character ;  lives  that 
are  narrow  and  barren  of  opportunity ;  lives  that 
either  by  their  own  weakness  or  by  the  wickedness 
of  others  endure  shameful  injuries — for  all  these, 
Robertson  felt  with  that  sacrificial  fulness  of  sym- 
pathy which  almost  literally  bears  the  sicknesses  and 
carries  the  griefs  of  others.  It  is  quite  characteristic 
of  him  that  at  one  time  he  spent  long  hours  of  the 
night  in  walking  the  streets  of  Brighton,  endeavour- 
ing to  redeem  fallen  women.  Any  tale  of  wrong 
done  to  women  moved  him  to  a  paroxysm  of  rage, 
and  those  who  witnessed  these  terrible  outbursts 
never  forgot  them.  He  knew  that  sort  of  anger 
which  is  virtue  enraged,  pity  enraged,  sympathy 
suddenly  fanned  into  white  heat :  the  anger  of  the 
Lamb !  His  sermons  bear  witness  to  these  things. 
Multitudes  who  are  no  scholars  and  have  not  the  wit 
to  recognise  Robertson's  rare  quality  of  intellect, 
have  read  these  sermons,  saying,  '  Here  is  one  who 
understands  me ! '  He  who  can  comprehend  the 
spiritual  tragedy  that  underlies  commonplace  lives 
is  sure  of  a  wide  audience  ;  for  who  is  without  his 
inner  secret  of  pain,  who  that  does  not  yearn 
to  be  understood  ?  Robertson's  own  lonely  and 
uncomprehended  life  taught  him  intense  sym- 
pathy with  all  who  suffered,  and  gave  him  the 
key  by  which  the  secrets  of  many  hearts  were 
revealed. 


300  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 

In  point  of  literary  charm  and  grace  these  dis- 
courses hold  their  own  against  the  best  specimens 
of  pulpit  literature  in  any  age.  It  is  true  that  one 
cannot  pick  out  from  them  gorgeous  passages  of 
eloquence  as  one  may  easily  do  from  the  sermons 
of  Jeremy  Taylor  or  Bossuet.  Passage  for  passage, 
there  is  nothing  perhaps  that  strikes  so  full  a  note  of 
lyric  beauty  as  some  half  a  dozen  pages  of  Newman. 
Rhetoric,  as  mere  rhetoric,  was  abhorrent  to  Robert- 
son. The  bare  suspicion  that  people  thought  he  was 
saying  something  fine  was  sufficient  to  reduce  him  to 
silence.  In  reading  Newman,  one  feels  that  he  had 
a  certain  conscious  delight  in  the  exercise  of  his 
genius,  that  here  and  there  he  must  have  written 
with  a  pleasurable  sense  of  his  own  powers.  Robert- 
son is  never  thinking  of  himself,  never  even  thinking 
of  the  form  in  which  he  expresses  himself.  If,  as  a 
literary  artist,  he  had  any  conscious  aim,  it  was  to 
say  what  he  had  to  say  ?n  the  simplest  form.  The 
result  on  the  reader  is  an  impression  of  delightful 
naturalness.  The  language  is  refined,  fervent,  cogent, 
but  there  is  no  effort  at  fineness.  His  illustrations 
are  drawn  from  every  source,  yet  each  is  manifestly 
chosen  not  for  its  beauty  but  its  pertinence.  Yet  the 
beauty  is  there :  a  touch  of  poetry,  a  tenderness  of 
phrase,  something  that  lingers  on  the  ear  like  music, 
all  the  more  remarkable  by  contrast  with  the  austerity 
of  its  setting.  If  one  may  be  permitted  a  metaphor, 
which  must  not  be  too  closely  pressed,  Robertson's 
sermons  have  something  of  the  perennial  freshness 
and  simplicity  of  the  flowers  of  the  field  about  them. 
A  rare  orchid  is  more  wonderful,  but  not  so  sweet ; 
men  may  tire  of  the  meretricious  splendour  of  the 
orchid,  but  they  do  not  tire  of  violets  and  primroses. 


FREDERICK  W.  ROBERTSON  301 

Probably  the  reason  of  the  sustained  popularity  of 
these  discourses  lies  more  than  we  imagine  in  their 
simplicity  and  naturalness.  We  read  them,  re-read 
them,  and  come  back  to  them  after  many  years, 
always  with  a  new  delight,  for  they  possess  this 
highest  characteristic  of  classic  literature  that  their 
charm  is  inexhaustible. 

Robertson  died  at  the  very  fulness  of  his  powers, 
having  in  his  lifetime  received  no  commensurate 
recognition  of  his  genius.  His  intensity  of  living 
wore  him  out,  and  the  overwrought  and  sensitive 
brain  developed  disease  of  an  agonising  nature.  He 
hoped  to  live,  for  love  of  life  was  strong  in  him  to  the 
last.  When  he  could  scarcely  move,  he  crawled  to  the 
window  to  look  out  once  more  upon  '  the  blessed  day.' 
But  the  mischief  had  gone  too  deep,  and  the  brain 
was  too  dreadfully  injured  to  admit  the  hope  of 
recovery.  '  Let  me  rest.  I  must  die.  Let  God  do 
His  work ! '  were  his  last  words.  He  was  only 
thirty-seven.  Over  his  grave  his  friends  inscribed 
three  words  that  expressed  the  spirit  of  his  life  : 
Love,  Truth,  Duty.  But  even  his  friends  scarcely 
recognised  in  him  one  of  the  master-spirits  of  the 
age.  Years  passed  away,  and  then  at  length  came 
the  publication  of  his  sermons,  followed  by  the 
sympathetic  biography  of  Mr.  Stopford  Brooke,  and 
England  knew  that  once  more  a  man  of  genius  had 
been  in  her  midst.  Brighton  had  not  known  it, 
Brighton  does  not  know  it  now.  If  the  stranger 
asks  for  the  humble  little  Chapel  of  Ease,  in  Ship 
Street,  where  Robertson  once  preached,  no  one 
remembers  where  it  is,  or  remembers  the  man  who 
once  made  it  the  shrine  of  genius.  Perhaps,  after  all, 
it  is  more  fitting  that  Robertson  should  be  remem- 


302  THE  MAKERS  OF  MODERN  PROSE 


bered  not  by  the  local  and  accidental  associations  of 
his  life,  but  as  a  spiritual  force,  as  the  soldier-saint 
of  truth,  as  the  clearest  and  most  honest  interpreter 
of  Christianity  which  the  nineteenth  century  has 
produced. 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  Her  Majesty 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press 


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